


A Man of Substance

by photogiraffe77



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Drama, Drinking, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sex, Fluff and Angst, Haikyuu - Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Modeling, Olympics, Recovery, Romance, Smut, Violence, canon compliant almost kinda, post college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:34:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 90,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24429571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/photogiraffe77/pseuds/photogiraffe77
Summary: "Trauma was not something Ushijima was familiar with. When he looked back at his last 25 years, he could account for very few things that made him truly, genuinely heartbroken. The loss to Karasuno, keeping them from Nationals his senior year. The death of his grandmother when he was 10 years old. The divorce of his parents early in his childhood, splitting their household.While these things affected him, when he looked down, towering over Oikawa Tooru's trembling body, starved of both affection and proper nutrition, his dark eyes lifeless and fearful, his slender hands shaking in terror, afraid of something Wakatoshi couldn't see, he knew that he didn't know trauma. Or pain. Or suffering. But understood that Oikawa did -- he knew all of these things in abundance. Whatever had unfolded in the last five years, it caused the once prideful and charismatic man to shatter, leaving behind a husk of who he once was."WARNINGS: drug use, sexual assault, language, explicit sex, violence
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 270
Kudos: 488





	1. White Caps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I just wanted to take a brief moment to add another trigger warning about this fic (there is one in the bio) - this is going to cover some heavy topics, including illegal drug use, sexual assault, blurred lines of consent, explicit sexual content, brief depictions of violence (fist fighting) and of course, language. Please proceed with caution. I will do my best to post specific trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter, but please know this first one is a doozy and requires all of the aforementioned TW's. 
> 
> That being said, I write this from a place of deep personal experience and this has been cathartic for me. I come from a long line of family drug addicts and I have, on top of my Bachelor's degree, a certification in Social Work - Drug and Alcohol Administration. However, I am in no way, shape, or form, a licensed therapist or counselor. If you feel you have an issue with drugs and/or alcohol, please consult a licensed addictions counselor - people love and care about you! 
> 
> On a lighter note, I know this is a pretty 'rare pair', and people love Oikawa and Iwa-chan, but I will work that in. This fic starts off dark and will cover some heavy issues, but I assure you, that there will be some light and fluff on a road to recovery.

It wasn't enough - it never usually was. Never enough heat, never enough alcohol, never enough noise to drown out the constant, deafening emptiness that dwelled in the bottom of Oikawa's heart. There, in the middle of a sweat-laden dance floor of some mononym night club, deep in the bar district of Tokyo that overflowed with all of the aforementioned indulgences, it still wasn't enough.

"Open up, Tooru," yelled a voice next to him, though he could barely hear it over the thundering bass from the speakers not 15 feet from him.

Without hesitation, Oikawa opened his mouth, and the girl who ordered the instructions slipped a white pill on his pink and eager tongue. He swallowed deeply, chasing it with a sip of his very potent double rum and Coke.

"What was that?" he leaned in and asked.

The girl, a fellow model at the agency where he was gainfully employed, shook her head and shrugged. "Does it fucking matter?"

It didn't - not to Oikawa Tooru.

He threw his hands in the air, allowing himself to be swept away by the music, though the tune was now incoherent once it reached his reddened ears; he could only feel the dense rhythm as it pulsated through his bones, urging him to move, to sway, to dance, anything to prove to his numbing body that he was still alive.

The club was so hot, sweltering even, but he didn't notice. Copious sweat forced his thin blue Guuchi t-shirt to cling to his slender, athletic frame, accentuating his defined chest and narrow hips. Hordes of bodies crowded around him, the flashing lights allowing for only brief glimpses of entranced faces. He felt someone grinding against his toned thigh, causing him to raise his half-lidded, hazel eyes.

"You're pretty," cooed a man beside him, the assumed owner of the thrusting hips.

Oikawa opened his mouth to speak, but instead, only took another long sip of his drink. His movements were slow, hindered by his current state of inebriation. "How pretty?"

The dark-haired man, who was about four inches taller than Oikawa and looked about 10 years older, grabbed his pale wrist and pulled him closer, allowing him a direct look at the former volleyball player's blown-out pupils, the black orbs consuming more of his eyes than his actual iris.

"How much?" he hissed through his teeth, drinking in the sight that was Oikawa, hungry eyes undressing him in the crowded bar.

"Loretabs," Oikawa answered slowly, slurring, his full lips grazing the hot cheek of the stranger.

The man drew back, not releasing his vice grip on the chestnut-haired boy, a sleazy smirk painted across his lecherous face. "You got it, babe," he replied as he began to draw Oikawa away.

The setter didn't seem to notice that he was actually moving as he was dragged along, his brown Cole Hanns scraping through the grime on the concrete floor beneath his feet.

\---------

He didn't want to be there. Through four years of college and now two years on the National team, he repeatedly refused Bokuto's request to be a 'wing-man', even if Ushijima Wakatoshi didn't fully understand what that was.

"I went over this on the train!" exclaimed the outside hitter as they stood in line, waiting to be called by the bouncer.

"I still do not understand," Ushijima reiterated, his voice as flat and emotionless as ever. "It is not the same as a wing spiker?"

The slightly shorter boy ran a hand through his white, spiked hair. "Brooooo," he groaned in frustration, dragging out the word. "Ugh, no. It has nothing to do with volleyball. Your job is to literally just help me pick up a hot chick... or a dude," he admitted. "I mean, really at this point, I don't care."

Ushijima kept his hands at his side as his light brown eyes scoured his surroundings. "We should be resting. Or training." The abrupt retort was so typical from the ace, it about made Bokuto puke.

With a slight roll of his amber eyes and a simple shake of his head, he took another step closer to the entrance. "We can have fun sometimes, too!" he explained. "I don't know if I've ever seen you have fun--" Right as his teammate was about to counter, "-- doing anything other than volleyball", the former Shiratorizowa captain shut his mouth.

"This won't be fun," he deadpanned. He was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that going into this crowded nightclub was going to be anything but fun.

At the completion of that thought, the bouncer beckoned the duo forward. Bokuto handed over their cover charge, causing the bulky man in the black t-shirt with 'security' printed on it in bold, highlighter yellow font to raise the dividing rope, granting them entrance into the energetic venue. It took a moment, once stepping inside, for Ushijima's eyes to adjust to the strobing lights and his hearing to acclimate to the blaring hip-hop music. Bokuto's face lit up; he was in his element. Ushijima, on the other hand, had never felt more out of place in his life.

Sensing his teammate's discomfort, he leaned over. "Dude let's just go get drinks first, then we can go from there." Liquid courage was always an appropriate buffer in Bokuto's mind. The pair weaved their way through the thick sea of dancing, perspiring bodies, to make their way to the long horseshoe-shaped bar at the opposite end of the entrance. The air was dense with the scent of sex and booze, the foreboding miasma invading Ushijima's lungs.

Once reaching their destination, Bokuto folded his long, toned arms against the heavy, granite bar top, his golden gaze falling on a very well-endowed bartender dressed in a thin white v-neck. "Hey, babe, can I get a tequila and Sprite, make it a double? And a, uh," he afforded a glance to the formidable man behind him. "Hey, Ushiwaka! What the fuck do you even drink, man?"

"I don't drink," he replied in his normal matter-of-fact tone.

Bokuto let out a heavy sigh, returning his attention to the semi-annoyed bar maiden before him. "Okay, Jesus, just give me whatever you have on tap, too," he stated, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his skin-tight black jeans.

The blond waitress busied herself with the orders, giving Bokuto the opportunity to scan the packed nightclub for a potential mate. From what he could tell, the dance floor centered in the industrial style room was the place to be; it was full of gyrating patrons and it oozed ample sex appeal. However, he knew he would never, in a million lifetimes, be able to get his wingman down there.

"Here," the bartender said, holding out two full cups to the white-haired spiker.

"Why, thank you madam!" Bokuto exclaimed, gladly accepting the alcohol. "I'm sure these will be as tasty as you look," he added a smarmy wink, earning him an upturned middle finger from the employee. Bokuto chuckled: he was off to a great start.

He stepped away from the bar, handing Ushijima his plastic cup, filled to the brim with light brown liquid. The ace tilted his head forward trying to study it closer, careful not to spill it. He thought it smelled bitter, causing him to scrunch his nose.

"Dude, it's just a beer," Bokuto explained, taking a long swig of his own alcoholic beverage, the tequila feeling like fire as it went down his throat. It was a double, no doubt about it; that blond bombshell poured heavyhanded. Ushijima took a tentative sip of his beer, following suit; he was right, it was bitter. "The more you drink, the better it will taste, I promise!" he hooted.

"That seems like an illogical way of thinking," Ushijima stated, taking another sip, scrunching his nose in disgust. So far, Bokuto's thought process wasn't panning out.

As if he could read his friend's thoughts, Bokuto added, "by more, I mean several," he clarified with a laugh. He had known and been on a team with Ushijima long enough to understand that the tall man took things quite literally. Though he had made improvements, euphemisms and figures of speech were often a gray area that merited clarification or further explanation.

At that moment, a slender young woman dressed in a tight black dress slowly walked by, her eyes fixed on the white-haired ace. She gave a slight wave, her hands adorned with bright red, acrylic nails.

"Well, hey, hey, hey!" offered the owl, taking a step closer, the short wait for an interaction giving him a much-unneeded ego boost.

"Hey!" the woman yelled her reply as a brunette companion joined her. The other woman looked about the same age and she was dressed in a tight, white mini denim skirt and a pink halter top.

"How's it goin', girls?" Bokuto asked, situating himself between the pair. "Having fun?"

The girls giggled behind their hands and nodded. "Yeah, how about you?" the first girl inquired.

"Well we're having a better time now that you gals are here, aren't we Ushijima?" the owl threw a sideways glance over his shoulder only to be stunned; his wingman had vanished.

\------

"Ah, fuck, you're so pretty!" The explicit moan echoed in the cramped bathroom stall, reverberating off the metal paneling. "I bet you're tight, huh? Maybe not, you act like a little slut."

Oikawa hated that word, despised it with every fiber of his being. But in his current lucid state, he wasn't paying much attention to what was being said in the low-lit men's room, let alone what was happening to him. He was only half aware that his pants were around his ankles, the dark-haired, older man's hands exploring the most private parts of his limp body.

"It's okay if you can't get hard," the man whispered right into his ear. "This isn't about you."

The setter's eyes were half-closed, the bulk of his body weight being supported by the stall door. His face was completely numb and his fingers were tingling, like static noise was circulating through his bloodstream: exactly how he told himself he liked it. When he would wake up in the morning, wherever that would be; his own bed, a stranger's, an alleyway, he would tell himself that it was worth it. It was worth it not to feel. He would chase that lethargic, paralyzing feeling (or lack thereof) to the ends of the earth if he had to.

The older man unbuckled his belt, pushing his exposed, erect cock against Oikawa's bare ass, shoving the model's face into the cold metal of the stall. In his half-awake state, he could almost feel the cool steel beneath his enflamed cheek.... Almost. He almost wished he could. The patron grabbed a fistful of thick, brown waves. "How many to fuck you?" he asked seriously, continuing to grind, bucking his erection between two milky thighs.

"Ten," he replied, his tongue swollen in his mouth, his speech slurred and sloppy. He wondered if his cheeks had always been this heavy; if his mouth had always tasted like copper.

"Heh, now I know that's a joke," retorted the man, picking up speed in his thrusts. "Ten Loratabs? Try again."

Oikawa couldn't handle numbers right now. Whatever his coworker had popped into his mouth about twenty minutes ago was heavily fogging his brain. He wasn't entirely sure where he was, and who he was with, but he still knew he couldn't handle numbers.

"I said, a _real_ number," the last word seethed into Oikawa's flushed neck, the chocolate-colored locks matted to the back with sweat. The man was clearly growing impatient. "If you don't fucking answer, you're just going to get fucked and leave here emptyhanded, slut." He increased the pressure on the tight hold his right hand had on the former setter's inner thigh; the left one still tangled in thick, blanketed hair.

"...five," he whispered, his mouth feeling as if he had just tried to eat fistfuls of cotton balls, the dry ache tearing at his throat.

"Heh," the dark man scoffed. "That's better."

\-------

Ushijima wandered toward the bathroom in hopes that it would be quieter than the raucous interior that was rapidly dulling his hearing, maybe provide respite from the noise polluting his brain. As he approached the doors located toward the back of the very crowded nightclub, he was relieved to find that the bathrooms didn't have a line.

"Dude, let's just go use the ones up by the entrance," the stoic spiker overheard a patron say, turning to his friend.

"Yeah, that's fucking weird," his companion seemed to agree as they walked past Ushijima, paying the giant no mind. "I'm pretty sure that was two dudes."

The former captain scrunched his face in mild curiosity, his two thick eyebrows threatening to touch each other as they framed inquisitive brown eyes. With a slight shrug, he walked toward the bathroom and opened the heavy gray door. The moment he stepped inside, he began to understand what deterred the other two bargoers.

"I can't fuck you if you can't stand," a harsh voice snarled, the disdain audible even to his roaring ears. The spiker peered into the low light, the rambunctious thumping of the club music still carrying through the thin, dark walls. The bathroom wasn't very big and was mostly vacant, aside from whoever was occupying the last stall.

The heavy 'thud' and coinciding pained gasp that followed his observation caused Ushijima's stomach to swell with concern. While he never once planned to use his criminal justice degree, he had pursued the major due to his strong sense of moral justice. He was a captain in both high school and college not just because of his skills, but also because of his ability to discern right from wrong.

Long legs carried him to the stall in question in no time, eliciting a solid rapping of knuckles on the metallic threshold. "Is there a problem in there?" His normal, monotonous tone sounded domineering when coupled with the force of his knock.

"Fuck off!" he heard a man holler back at him, clearly angry. "Mind your business."

A groan rose from behind the thin sheet of metal. It was so soft he almost hadn't heard it, but it was definitely there. The faint sound prompted him to knock again, pounding his closed fist harder against the stall.

At that moment, the red metal door flung open, revealing a sight that Ushijima was not prepared for: a tall, dark-haired man in his late 30's stood leaned over a pale, almost lifeless body. It took three whole seconds for the spiker's brain to fully wrap around who the body belonged to -- his former rival, Oikawa Tooru, laid there, his porcelain face resting on the cold, concrete floor, his tailored jeans still bunched around his ankles, the entirety of his lower half exposed and reddened from what was obvious forced contact.

"You can fuck this lethargic little whore; I'm done here." This statement was immediately followed by a cynical, humorless laugh. The older man brought a hand up to pat Ushijima on his broad shoulder, the contact almost burning his skin with sheer rage. "He's not much fun, though," he hissed, the venom catching on his crooked teeth. "I really like it when they can still squirm and cry."

White-hot lightning moved through Ushijima's body, surging in his veins, pushing him forward as he brought a powerful closed left fist across the attacker's jaw, sending him hurtling toward the ground.

"What th--" he sputtered, blood pooling in his mouth as he cowered in front of the sinks. "Heh, is that your boyfriend? Sorry about that, but I hate to tell you he begged me for it." The taunt only deepened the Olympian's anger, searing red consuming his vision.

The main door to the bathroom opened once more, eliciting a gasp. "Holy shit, some big dude is kicking some guy's ass!" an excited patron yelled, attempting to sum up the scene. "Call security!"

"Go ahead, call the cops. What are you going to tell them?" Blood was running down the corner of his crooked, devious smile. "That boy has more pain pills in his pocket than a god damn pharmacy. He'll get more time for possession than I ever will for jacking off on his cute ass."

Ushijima raised his fist again, letting it fall heavily into the already bruised jawline once more, a satisfying crack surging against the nerve endings in his knuckles. He ignored the impending threat of security and police; the irony was not lost on Ushijima that no one bothered to call for help while Oikawa was being assaulted, the men instead choosing to turn a blind eye.

"Stay down," the spiker commanded before rising and turning to attend to what really mattered: the blacked-out former setter lying just behind him. He knew the first thing he needed to do was save some face for the lean man, helping pull his dark wash jeans back up around his narrow hips, covering his exposed bottom half. Once that was done, Ushijima scooped him into his arms, placing one arm behind the bend of his knees and the other wrapped firmly around his waist.

As his commanding presence navigated through the cluster that was forming by the back wall, Ushijima knew he didn't care: he didn't care about the attacker moaning in pain just feet from the piss-stained urinals, or what the ramifications would be if they found out a notable Olympian was the one who incited such damage. He didn't care about the murmurs of judgment rising from the crowd around him, gawking at the giant, and the pretty boy cradled so delicately in his arms. He didn't even care when security called out to him, instructing him to stop: he just kept walking. He simply pushed through, unwavering, relentless, and dead set on leaving the horrendous venue.

No one was able to stop him as he sauntered through the front doors and out onto the bustling street. It was pushing midnight, but that didn't matter to the bar district; if New York was the city that never slept, Tokyo was the city that never rested.

"Hail me a taxi," the spiker commanded, turning toward a short, ginger-haired woman next to him on the street. She looked up at him, terrified at first, then became awash with understanding at the site of Oikawa in his robust, competent arms, prompting her to stick a small hand in the air, sending her collection of bangle bracelets sliding down her thin wrist.

In a matter of moments, a yellow cab pulled to the curb. Following what was going on, the kind girl opened the backseat of the cab door, allowing Ushijima to lower Tooru onto the leather seat with ease before sliding in next to him. The door closed with a solid 'thud'. An appreciative head nod was offered to the astonished redhead, still curbside.

"Where to?" the cab driver asked, stealing a glance at the strange duo that had just climbed into his car. He grimaced, concerned that the unconscious boy might hurl. When Ushijima gave his address, the middle-aged man cocked a salt and pepper eyebrow. "Is your buddy going to last the 20-minute drive?"

"He will."

\--------

Carrying Tooru up to his apartment was just as easy as it had been to carry him out of the club, the brunette boy's body was limp in Ushijima's strong and capable hold. He even managed to shift the model's weight into mostly one arm so he could punch in the door code to his apartment.

"Oikawa," the spiker said as he crossed the threshold into his spacious living room. "Oikawa, wake up. You are safe."

At the second calling of his name, the beautiful boy stirred ever so gently, his long, thick lashes trembling on the edge of his high cheekbones, trying to will his eyes to open.

"Oikawa, you need to shower."

"Ah," a little yelp of rose from pink lips, the first sound Ushijima had heard stir from his former rival all evening, aside from the pained groan uttered from behind a stall door. This was a good sign; he was pushing closer to consciousness.

The spiker continued to carry the pale model, carefully navigating through his apartment, hyper-aware of the setter's long limbs as he snaked down the hallway, into his room, and then into the adjacent master bathroom. It housed a jacuzzi tub specifically designed to accommodate tall individuals. Oikawa may have been smaller than his statuesque rescuer, but that certainly didn't make him short.

Ushijima lowered him gently into the large tub. "Oikawa, I am going to take off your clothes," he said flatly, but loudly, hoping the former captain would hear and not be startled. This statement earned no rise out of the brunette, still mostly unconscious. Ushijima was very conscientious about how he proceeded to strip the boy, not wanting to feel like he was in any way repeating the lewd and illicit actions of the attacker back at the club.

He started with what he knew was the easiest - untying and removing his very expensive-looking shoes. Ushijima knew very little of fashion, anything he owned outside of sweats and jeans was all picked out by Bokuto, in the off chance that the stoic giant would join him for a night out - an event, he decided preceding the dramatic unfoldings happening before him, that would never happen again.

He moved on, slowly peeled the t-shirt that was still so desperately clinging to his damp skin, working hard to maneuver long limbs through stubbornly small armholes. Finally, he was left with the one article of clothing he had already put back on.

"Oikawa," the spiker said for the umpteenth time that evening, "I am going to take off your pants so you can take a bath. Don't be alarmed." As he followed through with his statement, the former setter let out yet another soft groan, this one a little louder. On cue, hazel eyes half opened; their irises overshadowed by enlarged pupils, the surfaces appearing like glass.

"W-where..." The word came out dry, Oikawa sounding like he had been chewing on sand.

"Oikawa, it is me, Ushijima Wakatoshi. You are in my bathroom. I am trying to help you." The statement sounded like the dull, robotic emergency announcement warning that comes on the radio when a typhoon is about to break land.

"Ushi..." The four letters scarcely audible, barely forming the beginning of the Olympian's name caused a blunt ache to pool in the taller man's heart, something he had never felt before, as he quickly finished the task at hand before turning on the faucet.

Warm water rushed over balmy, sweat-drenched skin, hurrying to relieve aching bones, fervently ushering feeling back into the numbed extremities. Ushijima could only watch, an uncharacteristically hopeful glimmer in his deep brown eyes, as the miracle liquid filled the tub. Steam began rising, clouding the bathroom, fogging the large mirror that stretched above the black, marble countertop that lined the opposite wall of the bathroom. Oikawa's movements were slow as he pulled his arms to fold them across his stomach, his eyes still foggy.

"Are you okay?" Ushijima asked, kneeling beside the oversized bathtub, large hands resting on the flat porcelain edge. Fingertips curled around the lip, a clear reflection of his mounting anxiety. Even though he was a man not easily shaken, this disturbing scene had left him uneasy.

The setter did not answer, only leaned his head back to stare unseeing at the white ceiling high above him. His hazel eyes flicked from one tile to the next, his lips moving but not speaking. Somehow, Ushijima knew he wasn't counting the tiles; he was seeing something else entirely.

"Oikawa, are you okay?" he repeated again, louder, with more force, his question tinged with concern. Even when this did not trigger a response, the spiker could only feel relieved that his former rival's eyes were still open.

At that moment, a realization crossed his mind. There was no way Oikawa was just drunk, Bokuto had been drunk many times in their shared athletic dorm in college. He was always cheery and talkative, even when he was completely intoxicated. He never, not once, looked like this, dazed liked this, unaware and so static.

A dark fear crept into Ushijima as he reached over to the jeans he had just removed, his thoughts turning toward the attacker's words just before the Olympian had (presumably) shattered his jaw. Sticking an apprehensive hand inside the front pocket, the spiker felt what he was afraid to-- the feeling of plastic pushing against the calloused pads of his fingers. Slowly, he pulled the item out, revealing a half-crumpled Ziploc bag that contained three large, white pills and several smaller ones that looked more like candy than medication. He knew then that Oikawa was not only drunk.

Even though he was in a trance-like state, Ushijima knew better than to make sudden movements or do anything that might tip off the setter to his shocking discovery. He needed to dispose of the pills without garnering his attention: the last thing he needed was a tripped out Oikawa, frantic and angry over his confiscated stash.

Brown eyes raised to see that the model was leaning lazily against the far edge of the tub, the look on his face hinting that he was still somewhere far away, nowhere close to the white-tiled bathroom in Ushijima's high rise apartment. Slowly, the wing spiker rose from his spot and made his way to the toilet, where he proceeded to dump out all of the medication inside, sending it away with a quick flush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this chapter! I know this one is a bit heavy, and we are bound to do quite a bit of heavy lifting as the story starts off. Please be assured that sun always shines after the rain leaves, we just have to wait a bit.
> 
> Next time: a bit stranger than fiction


	2. A Perfect Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not specific trigger warnings for this chapter, but note that it will reference back to some of the previous events from the night club in the last chapter.

Bergamot and lavender.

The two scents tried to comfort Oikawa as he slowly struggled to gain consciousness, his mind still a muddy mess. Even without opening his heavy eyes, he could feel a blanket was over him, the soft linen brushing against his bare forearms. He could feel warmth on his face, a dull orange glowing just behind his eyelids; it must be daytime, he surmised. Given the firm yet pillowy push against his back, he knew he was in a bed, but it definitely wasn't his.

Willing one hazel, bloodshot open, he quickly realized he was in a very nice bedroom. The soothing blue of the walls was gentle on his hazy vision, pulling him further from his darkness and into the reality around him.

Despite his brain feeling like it was oozing from the fault lines in his skull, he propped himself on one elbow. Gray and white static passed in front of his vision, like his family's old television set when it got left on the wrong channel. He took a deep, staggering breath as it passed through him. He knew he needed to get up, to figure out where he was.

Long, limber legs pulled up to his chest, then slowly swung around the edge of the king-size bed, placing his feet on the cool, hardwood floor. The sensation stilled him: he could feel again. Meaning, whatever poison he had pumped into his body was gone. He wouldn't be able to handle his newfound sobriety for much longer; he would need to get high again soon to avoid the sensory overload that was bound to come his way.

Looking down at himself for the first time, he saw what he was wearing: a much-too-large t-shirt hung off of his lean frame, exposing a delicate and pale shoulder. Emboldened on the front of the garment were the words 'TEAM JAPAN' along with a stylized graphic of the national flag.

"What the fu...?" he mumbled out loud, realizing only then that the entire interior of his mouth felt like he had just dined on cardboard. He wasn't sure if he was more surprised by the fact he was wearing such a niche top or by the fact that he was actually wearing clothes at all: a typical night of partying usually led to being naked... and alone.

Forcing himself to finally stand, he used one slender hand on the wall to support his weight as he made his way to the bedroom door. He noticed he was wearing a large pair of black athletic shorts, the drawstring pulled tight around his narrow waist to keep them from falling down. He glanced around, seeing no sign of his possessions - not his phone, nor his clothes nor his... _his jeans_. He realized this suddenly, a knot forming in his throat. He needed to find what he was wearing last night if he had any hope of feeling better this morning.

A tentative hand turned the brass doorknob, revealing a narrow apartment hallway. Stepping out into the corridor, Oikawa peered, squinting his still adjusting eyes. He could hear the soft sounds of a dishwasher running and the faint mumbles from what he thought was sure to be a television show. He followed the noises, his right hand still providing the majority of his support as he crept down the hall.

The passageway ended, meeting an open floor plan apartment. A spacious living room with a modern, light gray sectional and large flat-screen TV and glass end tables; a dining room with a glass top rectangle tables accompanied by four cushioned chairs; and finally, an impressive kitchen boasting white cabinets, black marble counter-tops, and high-end stainless steel appliances. For the second time that morning, Oikawa whispered, "what the f--", though his thoughts were derailed when he heard the front door open, then close with a soft 'click'.

"You are awake," a stoic, monotone voice observed. Ushijima removed his shoes and crossed the threshold, entering into the main living room.

"Really? Because it feels a lot like I am still dreaming," he chided, leaning against the back of the sectional sofa. There it was - the lethal sarcasm used to deflect even the most unbearable of situations. Ushijima took a step toward the confused setter, who in turn, took a step back.

"For the love of God, tell me we didn't fuck." When the wing spiker did not reply, as was his custom, Oikawa spoke again. "No, I can still walk, which I would assume would probably be difficult to do had we."

Ushijima turned, not acknowledging the statement, and made his way into the kitchen, setting two pharmacy sacks on the black and white tiled island. Unbeknownst to Oikawa, his former rival had spent the better part of the morning on the phone with a certain nurse who walked him through what a person in Tooru's situation would need. "You should eat."

"Christ, Ushibaka, I compliment the hypothetical size of your dick, and that's all you have to say?" The smirk plastered on the setter's face was his mask, his badge of courage, the only thing he felt like he could truly show the world. "I guess that explains the giant shirt," he glanced down, emphasizing his disdain with a scrunched nose.

"I made you some rice and miso soup before I left for my errand. It will settle your stomach so you can take some medicine." The tall man opened the rice cooker, releasing steam into the air. He pulled a light blue plate from the cabinet above and began dishing out the food. Oikawa moved further inside the room, taking a seat at the dining table.

"Speaking of medicine..."

Ushijima stopped and raised his golden-brown eyes, but did not meet the setter's annoyed gaze. "We will discuss the contents of your pocket after you have eaten."

An irritated huff followed that response. "It was mine," the model seethed, his fists now balled at his side, turning his already pale knuckles even whiter, hazel eyes watching the spiker's every move. "So you should probably give it back."

"Or you will call the police?" he asked, returning the sarcasm, even though it was not evident by his deadpan tone. He set the plate down on the table, along with a small bowl of miso soup. "Eat, and I will answer."

Oikawa stared down at the food. Even he could not deny that it did smell delicious and he was so very hungry. He hadn't had anything to eat yesterday in preparation for the photoshoot that evening that bled over into the eventful night out, though he couldn't remember most of it. "This is high carb food," he noted blandly, not picking up his utensils.

Ushijima was fiddling through his shopping bags, removing packages of medication, as well as an oversized bottle of nutrient water. "It will taste fine. I had some earlier."

Another huff; he was clearly bothered. "God, you are so stupid. I can't eat food like this. I model for a living." His words were callus and direct.

"I am aware of your profession," he stated, making his way back over to the table with the pharmacy haul in tow. "Everyone needs to eat, though. You also need to drink this." He set the large water bottle down beside the still untouched plate.

Feeling overly exasperated with the conversation that was only increasing the mounting pressure in his head, Oikawa took a small, reluctant bite. He followed it by downing half of the water bottle, revitalizing to his parched and dehydrated body.

"This is ibuprofen and some stomach medicine," Ushijima explained from his seat across from the now-eating setter. "Sugawara said you should take three because he is guessing you have built up a high tolerance for pain medication."

"Suga?" he asked, midway through a bite. The fear housed in his eyes was painstakingly evident - he had strived so hard to keep anyone from his past in the dark about his addiction. "Why did you talk to Suga?"

"Sugawara is a nurse here at a hospital in our prefecture. I spoke to him this morning regarding your condition and he made some recommendations." He folded his powerful hands together and rested them on the table.

Oikawa's face darkened and he slowly lowered his chopsticks. "You told Suga about my..." _drugs_. But he couldn't utter that word aloud while simultaneously keeping his pride intact.

"I did not tell Sugawara who I was helping, simply that I needed help. I know that you assume that I am stupid because my words are not as numerous nor as sharp as yours, but I am in no way daft." His golden eyes were piecing, cold, telling Oikawa everything that his tone didn't, and never would.

"Huh," he huffed sharply, genuinely surprised. "Here I thought you were just a fucking simpleton." He took another quick bite of his food. "So this is what Olympic sponsorship and that Adler money buys you," he commented, eyeing the luxurious apartment. His hazel eyes shimmered with just a hint of envy, causing Ushijima to swallow thickly.

"I have worked hard," he commented plainly, not tearing his eyes away from the setter's face. The light gray bags that formed just below the model's eyeline caused a knot to form in the pit of the spiker's stomach. He looked so tired and colorless, the fervent life and energy that once poured from his rival were gone now, lost from his sharp features. "Do you like modeling?"

Oikawa snorted, taking another sip of water. "Yeah, it's real fucking peachy. I can't eat shit, I have a fucking hectic schedule, and I have to deal with self-centered assholes."

"It doesn't sound that much different from volleyball," Ushijima observed.

"Heh," he chuckled, half-genuine for the first time since arriving at the apartment.

"You don't have to watch what you eat."

Oikawa cocked an eyebrow. "Sorry?" he asked.

"I think you look your best when you're eating and healthy. Like you did when we played against each other in college."

"Pfft!" the setter spit his drink. "Ushiwaka-chan, did you just say that I was good looking?"

"Yes."

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes. "Hey, why the hell does your room smell like lavender?" He wanted to change the subject.

"It is an essential oil diffuser."

Oikawa's eyes widened. "It's a what?" he asked, not even attempting to mask the shock in his tone.

"It's an essential oil diffuser. It's for --"

The setter held up a hand, quieting the man in front of him. "I know what it's for, dumb ass. What I want to know is why the fuck Ushijima Wakatoshi has one?"

"My mother bought it for me," he explained casually, unphased by his counterpart's obvious attempt to make fun of him.

"Why?" Oikawa repeated, annoyed.

"To help me sleep. She bought me the lavender oil to diffuse because she read it helps with insomnia and restlessness. I thought of putting it on last night so that it might make your sleep more restful."

Oikawa lowered his chopsticks and blinked slowly, his heart sinking in his chest. Why? Why was his old rival showing him kindness? What was the point of being thoughtful to trash like him? Oikawa looked away and let out a disinterested "tch", feigning his best sneer, though didn't make a further remark.

Oikawa took one last bite and pushed the empty plate away from him with a sharp scrape on the glass tabletop, almost ceremonially, like a child seeking his reward for finishing his vegetables. Oikawa slurped the rest of his soup from the small bowl and pushed it aside, too. "Done. Now, where is my shit?" He punctuated the question with a heavy click of his tongue, impatient behind his perfect teeth. He was done playing games and done talking. He could feel himself starting to be swayed by their conversations and it was exhausting to keep resisting.

"Medicine," Ushijima demanded, sliding the orange pills toward the setter.

Oikawa scowled, folding his arms, the tense lines scrunching on his forehead. "I'm getting pretty sick of you bossing me around today, Ushiwaka-chan."

"It would be something you would be acclimated to had you had the good sense to follow me to Shiratorizawa like I asked." The terse words fell on Oikawa like a heavy stack of bricks, causing his feeble body to spring from his seat. It came out harsher than Ushijima had intended, but then again, emotional depth was never his strong suit.

"Fuck. You." He enunciated each word with sheer rage, his lifeless face now painted scarlet just below his high cheekbones, his anger evident.

Ushijima did not flinch at the hateful words slung his direction. He kept his guarded stance, buff arms folded across his broad chest, never once removing his gaze as he looked Oikawa dead in the eye, "I flushed them."

Oikawa's heart fell to his stomach, churning the freshly added contents. He desperately tried to string together his thoughts, register the information. Yes, he could get more, but when? Where? He doubted Ushijima kept anything in his apartment he could use to get high. While wading in this realization, thoughts of the club came rushing back, fragmenting across his vision: the deafening roar from the tall, black speakers, the sickeningly strong smell of Bacardi and Coke as it sloshed around in a plastic cup, the metallic rattling of a red stall door while...

Nausea climbed Oikawa's esophagus, the bitter thickness burning his throat. The bathroom. He brought a quick hand to his mouth to push it down, to keep himself from showing any more weakness to the man he swore he hated. Hot tears welled in the corners of his already bloodshot eyes as he fell against the wall behind him, knees weak, unable to bear the weight of his body, nor the brunt of his inebriated decisions. That fucking bathroom. He had enough experience with this routine to know that he was, in fact, spiraling.

"Oikawa!" The tall man shot up from his seat, rushing to aid.

"Get the fuck off me!" was the exclamation as Oikawa tried, and failed, to push Ushijima's supporting hand off his hip. Tears were pouring down, running rampant down high cheekbones, clinging mercilessly to long lashes, the moisture making them appear all the darker. Shame, confusion, and self-hatred burned his body, hotter than any fire, shredding his insides.

"Oikawa, stop." It was a command, though not forceful nor angry. But that didn't matter: Oikawa instinctively brought his quivering hands up as if to shield his face from some anticipated blow. He winced, craning his neck away, prepared for a strike, ready to take his punishment. Ushijima recognized the defensive move, it was so similar to the one that the piece of shit tried to use in the club bathroom not 12 hours prior. "I am not going to hurt you," he whispered, trying to keep his baritone voice as soft as possible. He gingerly edged the back of the setter's hands with the calloused pads of his fingertips, urging Oikawa to lower his, to show his face once more, to not be afraid.

Trauma was not something Ushijima was familiar with. When he looked back at his last 25 years, he could account for very few things that made him truly, genuinely heartbroken. The loss to Karasuno, keeping them from Nationals his senior year. The death of his grandmother when he was 10 years old. The divorce of his parents early in his childhood, splitting their household.

While these things affected him, when he looked down, towering over Oikawa Tooru's trembling body, starved of both affection and proper nutrition, his dark eyes lifeless and fearful, his slender hands shaking in terror, afraid of something Wakatoshi couldn't see, he knew that he didn't know trauma. Or pain. Or suffering. But understood that Oikawa did -- he knew all of these things in abundance. Whatever had unfolded in the last five years, it caused the once prideful and charismatic man to shatter, leaving behind a husk of who he once was.

"Tooru," he stated, the given name humming low in his throat as he kneeled on the hardwood to be eye level with the brunette. In a lithe and calculated motion, Ushijima pulled the setter into his strong chest, wrapping him up in a tight hug, something he had never really given someone before, aside from his own mother.

"Get the fuck off of me," the model sobbed, repeating himself, though his volume wasn't as loud as it was before, not as forceful nor as angry. Hot tears wet the front of the wing spiker's soft gray t-shirt. Unsure of what to do next, Ushijima stayed where he was, holding up Oikawa, supporting him in more ways than one. "Let go of me," he whispered the plea halfheartedly, leaning now into the spiker, into the affection and warmth he craved more than any pain pill.

The Olympian didn't listen, did not oblige the tepid request. "Shh," he whispered, breathing into the shorter man's chocolate brown locks, catching a whiff of his own bergamot-scented shampoo. He did not know what else to do or say as the heartwrenching sobbing continued. Ushijima was not a man of many outward emotions, but that didn't mean he didn't feel them. And right now, he was feeling something for Oikawa he had never felt prior: the overwhelming need to soothe and protect him, to shelter him from all that sought to do him harm. He could only run his large hands over the soft waves as the man in his grasp wept.

A few minutes passed, and the crying seemed less violent, though showed no signs of stopping completely. "Oikawa, would you like to lay down again?" the wing spiker asked, athletic arms still encompassing the lean frame. He could feel the setter's heart rate slowing finally as he took long, ragged breaths. The response came in the form of a weak nod. Silently, Ushijima put one arm behind the setter's knees and the other around his narrow waist and carried him down the hall, back to the asylum of his bedroom.

\---------------

"He's probably going to sleep a lot. You have no idea how long he's been on a bender. His recovery time is going to be slow, especially if he isn't eating much on a regular basis." Suga's voice was soothing and warm, even over the phone, laced with hope and sunshine. "And he's not going to have much control over his emotions."

Ushjima did not reply. Suga and Daichi had learned long ago that talking on the phone with the wing spiker was more-or-less (or exactly) like it was in person. They did most of the talking and Ushijima did most of the listening.

"I take it he did not respond well when you told him his stash was gone?" Suga pried.

"Correct."

"And you're not going to tell us who this person is?" Suga pushed again. He didn't want to know because he was a gossip or a busybody, but because in the previous conversation, the tall man had alluded to the fact that the couple knew the individual. And that they cared about him, too. The nurse's intentions were nothing but pure.

"No. He asked me not to, and I..." his voice uncharacteristically wavered. "I don't want to put Sawamaura in a difficult spot." He was referencing the fact that Daichi, Suga's loyal partner, was a dedicated investigator to the Tokyo police force and a graduate from the same criminal justice program as Ushijima.

A shuffling noise occurred over the line as if Suga was handing the phone to someone else. "Ushijima," came the deep but comforting tone of his former classmate. "You have my word. If knowing his identity helps him, and you, please share it with us." He went on to add, "drug-related crimes aren't even my department, so unless he's committed homicide, it's not really my business."

A long pause gapped between them as Ushijima debated revealing what he knew. "It is Oikawa." Twin gasps rose from the receiver.

Daichi hissed. "Damn it."

"I was very worried after his knee surgery... and Iwaizumi." Suga's voice was farther away as if he was standing behind Daichi.

"He is modeling now," Ushijima informed them.

"Ha - that's an industry famous for valuing sobriety," Daichi scoffed loudly.

"I saw him in a magazine a few weeks ago, a Rolex ad. He looked really good, Dai," Suga explained, his tone wistful.

"Of course he did. Even if he was high as fuck, they can Photoshop that now."

"Dai! Our child may be a baby but she still has ears and we don't say the f-bomb!"

Realizing the conversation with his friends had completely derailed, "I think I should go check on Oikawa."

"Oh yes, sweetheart," Suga cooed. "Do that. Please keep us posted and don't hesitate to bring him into the hospital if it gets to that point."

"Okay." Without saying goodbye, the Olympian hung up the phone, never being one for traditional social customs. It was getting close to 7 p.m, and the setter had not emerged from the bedroom since he fell asleep shortly after 1 p.m. Before calling Suga, Ushijima had prepared a hearty dinner of chicken stir fry, rich with vegetables and protein to help recover his strength. It was now sitting in the warmer.

Ushijima had paced the floor most of the afternoon, unsure what to do in his own home, opting to skip his 3 p.m. training slot at the gym, his first absence in two years. He cleaned the kitchen, washed and dried Oikawa's clothes from the night before, and flipped through the sports channel on TV. But every action was listless; his thoughts always drifting back to the beautiful setter resting in his room. He spent most of his time contemplating the man's well-being and imagining any number of horrible scenarios that lead up to Oikawa Tooru soliciting himself in nightclub bathrooms for pain pills. The scenarios were always heartbreaking and left a heavy fog in his chest, one he couldn't seem to shake.

Without realizing it, his pacing brought Ushijima down the hallway and to the threshold of his bedroom door, the brunette boy now in his sights. A thin square of light from the hall behind the wing spiker illuminated Oikawa's sleeping face. The bed was a mess, the blanket balled up at his feet from his restless sleep. He must have removed his shirt at some point, as Ushijima could see his bare chest. It was a beautiful, milk-white, graced with two light pink blushing nipples. A bead of sweat pooled in the divots of his defined collarbone, trailing down his chest, toward his lean abs. If the man skipped meals, it wasn't evident here at this moment.

"If you're going to stare, people might accuse you of being a pervert." In his wonderment, Ushijima failed to notice that the brunette had stirred.

"You are awake."

"I swear to God you only know like, five sentences."

"How are you feeling?"

Oikawa groaned, turning his back toward the door and his caretaker. "Like shit, stupid."

Ushijima did not immediately reply but took a step closer to the bed. "I made you dinner."

"Yeah because breakfast went so well for us."

"That was lunch. It was 12:30."

"Ugh," yet another irritated grunt. "You are maddening."

"Would you like another shirt?" the spiker offered.

"I would like my fucking pills back."

"Not possible."

"Then fuck off," Oikawa retorted, sitting up in the oversized bed. A moment of silence elapsed. "Are you holding me here?"

"I cannot hold you against your will. That is illegal."

"Then what do you want?" Oikawa asked, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "Do you want me to suck your dick? To let you fuck me and say 'thank you, my brave knight in shining armor' when we're done?" He did nothing to hide the vicious sarcasm in his voice. "You know, why did you stop him?" he rose from his spot now, walking around the foot of the bed to meet Ushijima at his spot just before the doorway. "I was this close to getting what I needed!" he held his thumb and index finger barely apart for emphasis.

"You weren't even conscious enough to consent, Oikawa," he explained calmly, golden eyes locked on his hazel ones.

"You don't get to decide that! I consented on the dance floor before we even got to the bathroom." His words held less conviction than it had a moment ago; he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Ushijima.

"You shouldn't let anyone treat you like that. You deserve better."

This statement had Oikawa cackling; a joyless, soulless, angry laugh left his pink lips. "What do you even know about me anymore, Ushiwaka-chan?! Huh? How do you know what I deserve? What could you possibly fucking kn--"

"I know," the spiker interrupted, "you don't deserve to get assaulted in a club bathroom just like I know you didn't deserve your knee injury and your botched surgery."

Tears found their way back to the forefront of hazel eyes once more, stinging. Would he ever run out of tears? Would he ever stop crumbling in front of his old rival? "I deserved every bit," he spoke through clenched teeth. "And more that you could never fathom."

"No."

"YES!" he screamed, shrill, unbalanced, lunging toward the taller man. "Yes, I fucking did. Still do. It would take a lifetime of atoning to compensate for the bullshit I have done! And you don't get to decide that."

A large hand came to rest on his shuddering shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You are the one that doesn't get to decide that."

Oikawa's eyes flashed; armed with his defense mechanism. "You're sure touchy this evening, Ushiwaka, are you sure you're not interested?" A delicate hand reached out to palm the taller man over his sweatpants, forcing Ushijima to flinch. "I heard you fucked a dude in college. Is that true? Then I know you can at least pitch, right?"

Ushijima grabbed his wrist and pushed him away with more force than he intended, causing Oikawa to stumble backward, falling against the bed. A fierce glare darkened his features. "You like it rough, huh? I do occasionally like to get hit around--"

"That's clearly not the case," Ushijima cut him off, referencing his stance from before.

Ignoring his comment, Oikawa continued as he pushed himself onto the bed and slouched, casually spreading his legs. "Just not the face, I have a photoshoot in the morning."

"Oikawa, that is enough." His voice was frustrated, dark, demanding. "Stop this."

Oikawa cackled again, the sound of it almost ear-shattering. "Stop what?" he asked, rolling over onto his stomach, tucking his hands beneath his pointed chin. He kept his gaze low, eyes fixed on Ushijima's lower half. "Stop flirting? I owe you, don't I? For saving me? For feeding me?"

"You owe me nothing."

"I learned in economics there was no such thing as a free lunch," he smirked, continuing. "I don't have money, and even if I did, you clearly don't need it. So the best thing I can offer you is my body." He slid off the comforter, and seductively sauntered back to the giant man, hazel eyes fixed on his lips.

"That isn't--" Before Ushijima could even react, Oikawa's mouth crashed into his, like a roaring wave upon the jagged rocks. The setter's hands fell into olive-brown locks, hungry, searching, clawing for something that resembled validation. That's what he needed more than anything: validation that he was alive. That he mattered. That he still existed. That he wasn't forgotten or worthless or second-rate. That he was still wanted.

The spiker stayed frozen beneath the passionate touching, unsure of what to do, mind drifting. He was torn. His body screamed to touch back, to hold and never let go, to kiss without releasing, to answer all of the questions Oikawa was so painstakingly asking, to finally take what he had so silently pined for all these years./p>

But his heart told him to push the setter away, to not let this go any further, to show Oikawa that he was worth more than cheap, fleeting antics, that he was valued beyond his relentless desire to burn himself to the ground.

Oikawa's tongue desperately slid across Ushijima's teeth, begging him to open his mouth further, to let him in. The taste of sadness and desperation was overpowering, almost sharp against his tongue; it broke his heart. Finally, Ushijima knew he had to put the war in his mind to rest; to make a choice before Oikawa's wandering hands could find anything more dangerous before they could grasp onto something that would only further cloud his judgment.

The wing spiker opened his eyes and pulled away, their mouths separating with a loud breath, each man winded. Ushijima could feel that his own cheeks were wet from tears, tears he knew he didn't cry. Oikawa's face was red once more, eyes swollen again, fingers still carding through the spiker's thick hair.

"Oikawa..." the taller man whispered, unsettled, so unsure. Looking at the man melting before him, he wasn't sure if he made the right choice. Perhaps if he pressed harder, gave in, he could save him, fix him, hold him together. He could keep that boat from capsizing in the waters, keep him from drowning in the sea of his own misery.

"You don't want me either," Oikawa croaked, the realization causing his voice to break like a pane of glass hurled to the floor. Hazel searched the taller man's stoic face, pining for some sign of fleeting affection or desire. He released his hold and stepped back, dragging his gaze to his feet.

"No."

A gasping, joyless laugh caught in his throat. "Of course you don't." He clenched his teeth together, keeping his head down, rich brown locks hiding his face.

"I do."

"You fucking DON'T!" he screamed, a closed fist catching the taller man in this solid chest. He remained unmoved, unaffected by the attempted assault.

"Come eat, Oikawa."

"Fuck you, I'm leaving!" He spat back, stomping around the room. Oikawa's clothes had been washed and folded and were left on the desk in the large room. The setter began to strip, removing the borrowed shorts, then pulled his own jeans on. "Stay the fuck away from me," he growled, though Ushijima hadn't moved an inch since entering the room.

"Stay here."

"STAY?!" Oikawa spun around, spitting venom, his blue shirt hanging off of his arms. "You are such a cocky piece of shit, always have been." He finished pulling his top over his pale torso. Ushijima stepped aside to let the setter storm past him, into the hall, and down to the living room.

"Your shoes are by the door." Ushijima told him after watching him frantically look around the large living area. He didn't know what else to say.

"Fuck you," Oikawa snarled, making his way toward the front door. "Just fuck you, Wakatoshi." He slammed his feet into the expensive shoes before throttling the door behind him, the reverb shaking the large painting above the television.

Yes, Oikawa was a perfect storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Okay guys, I'm sorry. Give Oikawa some time. I love him so much I promise!! 
> 
> Next time: Volleyball (finally). Bokuto is an idiot. Oikawa gets to work.


	3. Indignation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me start off by saying this: yes, I brought in a 'Free!' character into this fic. It's not a cross over, though. I will put more in the ending notes about that as to avoid spoilers for this chapter.
> 
> Trigger Warnings:  
> More implied drug use and blurred lines of consent, coercion, etc.

“Ugh,” Oikawa huffed as the makeup artist attempted to put more concealer under his eyes, struggling to cover the aubergine-pigmented bags that had formed beneath the hazel orbs. His whole face felt swollen from lack of sleep and over-excessive crying. It was now mid-morning and the half-empty Monster energy clutched in his right hand was doing little to supplemental his loss of energy. He bounced his knee, anxious to get into the studio. “Please fucking hurry.”

“You know, just because you added the word ‘please’ doesn’t make that sentence polite,” a sarcastic voice called from somewhere behind the vanity chair. Oikawa didn’t bother to turn around, he knew who it was. Out of all movement and people in the room, he didn’t have to guess who was chiding him.

“Shove it up your ass, Hiyori.”

“Now,” the man purred, running a poised index finger down the nape of Oikawa’s neck, tracing suggestively over the very fine hairs, “that’s _definitely_ not polite.”

Oikawa didn’t budge from his spot, opting to hold his face still so the makeup artist could finish her job. He also didn’t want to flinch or show any kind of reaction to the unwelcome touch from former swimmer lurking just behind him, to reveal that he was affected in any way. He wanted nothing more than to be finished with hair and makeup so he could get out of there and onto his shoot. 

“No response, Tooru?” Hiyori pouted, sticking out his lower lip, walking around to the front of the chair. The brunette pushed his tortoiseshell square frames up higher on his angular face, the pattern accentuating his rich amber eyes, catching the gold flecks housed in his irises. “God, now that I look closer,” he leaned in once the makeup artist pulled away, putting his nose only inches from Oikawa’s, “I can see that you look like shit.” 

“Don’t you have some photoshoot to botch?” Oikawa snapped, looking away, annoyed.

“Nah, I’m done. I just wanted to check you, sweetheart,” he cooed, taking a slender hand and tucking one of the setter’s chocolate locks behind his ear. “I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, babe. I’ve been really lonely.”

Oikawa slapped his hand away, the ferocity of the sound causing the other bystanders in the crowded prep room to turn their way. Hiyori pulled back, standing up straight, and let out a laugh, waving away the onlookers. “You’ve got such a bad temper, Tooru! You should really fix that.”

Oikawa rose from the salon chair and began walking back toward the studio, shoulder checking the spectacled model on his way out. “And you’ve got a shitty personality,” he threw over his shoulder, “so worry about yourself.”

Hiyori wasn’t troubled by the man’s remarks, instead, he only stood in the middle of the bustling salon as he watched the pretty setter disappear behind the door at the end of the room. A dangerous smirk painted his face. “Hang on tight, Tooru,” he whispered, low and domineering, “we’re about to have some fun.”

\------------------

“Ushiwaka!!” Bokuto yelled as he walked into the locker room. He eyed his tall brunette friend who stood in front of the bright red lockers, colored appropriately for Team Japan. He was shirtless, trying to apply kinesiology tape to his left shoulder. “Oi, you need help with that?” 

Ushijima lifted his golden-brown eyes to look at the white-haired spiker. “Sure.” He handed over the roll of tape and turned his back to Bokuto.

“Damn dude, you are _jacked,_ my friend!” Bokuto let out a low whistle as he undid the black tape. “Good god you are ttthiiiiiccccckkkk.”

“He doesn’t know what that means,” Kuroo interjected from a few lockers down, where he was seated on a metal bench, pulling up black knee pads over his long legs.

“‘No one knows what it means, but it gets the people going!’” Bokuto laughed as he quoted the famous movie line, wiping an invisible tear from his eye as he chuckled.

“Dude. Fucking NICE!” Kuroo raised his hand, prompting the owl to run over, their palms colliding in a vigorous ‘slap’.

“One of the best ice-skating shows ever, second only to ‘Yuri!!! On Ice’,” Bokuto stated with a proud nod of his head.

“Dude, how good is 'Yuri' though? I wish Viktor was real!” Kuroo leaned forward, tucking his hands under his chin, a dreamy glint in his eye.

“Please put on the tape,” Ushijima interrupted, obviously unphased by the foolishness of the other two athletes. It was a normal day of practice for the Olympic team, combining the best of the best from the various professional teams around Japan. Any other season, Bokuto and Kuroo would be his opponents, enemies to beat just on the other side of the net. But now, until the end of the Olympic games, they were comrades. 

“Oh fuck, my bad!” Bokuto exclaimed as he went back to aiding the ace, tearing microstrips and placing them along the defined shoulder blade, framing the dense muscles. “By the way, what happened to you the other night?”

“I ran into someone I knew,” Ushijima deadpanned, not feeling the need to elaborate further.

Bokuto shrugged as he finished the tape job. “I mean, I was worried about you, but I got two phone numbers, so I can’t really complain!”

“Bro, you went out without me?” Kuroo asked, his golden-brown eyes widened in concern. “B-but, brroooo!” he whined.

“Dude, you said you were sick on Saturday night!”

The raven-haired boy shuffled his feet and raised his eyes to the ceiling, clearly deep in thought. “Is that what I said?”

Bokuto scoffed, clearly annoyed. “Yes, that’s what you said!! What were you really doing?! You don’t go out with me anymore!” He let out a defeated sigh and slumped onto the bench next to the former captain. “Ushiwaka here had to go with me and it was rough.”

“How rough?” the cat asked, ignoring the previous question.

“I kept having to explain a wingman wasn’t a volleyball position!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “And he kept not getting it.”

“Tough break, bro,” Kuroo acknowledged, rubbing small circles on his teammate’s back. “Tough break.”

“If you ended up with phone numbers, then I guess your endeavor was still successful,” Ushijima stated flatly, pulling his sleeveless compression top over his head and smoothing it down over his defined torso. “Which means you obviously didn’t need me” His golden gaze glared at the two men who were still slumped on the bench just to his left.

“Oh yeah!” Bokuto agreed, sitting up. “You’re right! I still got some leads!” He smiled a dazzling grin, clearly pleased with himself.

“I like how you went out looking for phone numbers because you’re still in clear denial about your feelings for Akaashi,” Kuroo stated coolly, giving his teammate the side-eye.

“Ugh!” Bokuto exclaimed, burying his face in his hands. “It is useless having feelings for Akaashi when he’s clearly not like that!”

“Have you asked him?” Kuroo asked.

“Well…” Bokuto let out a heavy sigh and raised his eyes just over the tips of his fingers. “No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because he’s a dude and he’s never dated a dude so, therefore, he must not swing that way.”

“Dude, you have never been with a dude.”

“Yeah, but I at least hit on dudes.”

“Yeah, but you also hit on girls, too,” Kuroo pointed out, “and then get their phone numbers just to never call them because you’re actually in love with Akaashi.”

Bokuto’s face turned a deep red, his cheeks flushing at the realization. “W-what?!”

“Oh my god, bro,” Kuroo sighed. “You are so fucking stupid sometimes.”

Ushijima turned his back on the pair and exited the locker room, his patience for the conversation wearing thin, allowing the heavy door to slam behind him. He stepped onto the court, the hardwood shining and polished beneath his black Asics. He never took that feeling for granted - the feeling of standing in an auditorium, a palace erected for his favorite thing in the world. Even when it was empty of fans and spectators, it was his place of worship, his sanctuary, the pinnacle of his blood, sweat, and tears. It was the place he could pour himself out, no holds barred. He knew who he was. He knew he wasn’t good with words or feelings or always showing what was on his mind. But here, all of those pent-up emotions could come out, expressed through his desire to be the best. 

Ushijima immediately hit the court, running laps around the large arena, doing anything to keep his muscles warm and burning and his thoughts off of Oikawa. It had been a full day since the former setter stormed out of his apartment, an emotional wreck. Ushijima didn’t even have his phone number, and his concern kept him awake all night - not even the lavender oil could help put his nagging thoughts to rest. The only option he had now was to wear himself down to the point of utter exhaustion, in hopes it would tire him to the point he basically blacked out. 

“Ushijima!” Coach yelled after about twenty minutes of watching the large man sprint around the court; the rest of the members of the Olympic team had trickled in. “Enough with the cardio, line up for hitter drills.”

Ushijima stopped, running the back of his dominant hand across his forehead, wiping away the excessive sweat that had gathered there. He was red and breathless but felt no closer to shaking the dark thoughts that clouded his mind regarding Oikawa. Being on the court only reminded him of the man further and the long-standing ache of desire to have the setter beside him. Ushijima gritted his teeth as he approached the net. If only Oikawa had listened to him. If only he had followed him to Shiratorizowa, or even to the same college, this wouldn’t have happened. He could have watched over him, kept him from pushing himself to the point of injury, kept his career intact. There was room for him on the Adlers. There was room for him at the Olympics. These thoughts consumed him as he took his place on the hitter’s line. _This is bullshit._

“Kageyama, toss it,” he growled, eyes narrowed, chest constricting. He was so angry, the fire boiling under his ribcage. He thought he could forget. He thought he could move on, push down the feelings he long harbored for the man; the feelings that confused him, and shook him to his core.

But after seeing the beautiful boy in his bed, hair a mess, bare chest rising and falling with each resting breath; after the passionate and unexpected kiss, as if igniting the very marrow in his bones, he couldn’t deny it anymore: he loved Oikawa. He wanted him by his side, not just on the court, but everywhere else, too. His painful tears damn near crippled his resolve, pushing the wing spiker to a point of no return. 

He watched with burning eyes as the ball graced the end of Kageyama’s capable fingertips, the blue-eyed man sending it at the perfect height above the net. The mixed emotions boiling in Ushijima’s core overwhelmed him, dominating his extremities. With a vicious power, unlike any he had wielded before, his feet left the court. He drew his left hand back, fingers barely spaced apart as it came forward and met the volleyball. The deafening sound the connection made was reminiscent of that of an explosion, a direct reflection of the war ravaging his well-being. The ball struck the opposite side of the court, the ‘smack’ ricocheting off of the empty stadium chairs, rattling the aluminum rafters high above their heads. Ushijima landed back on the floor hard, a grunt leaving his parted lips.

“Holy fuck,” Kuroo whistled, eyes wide from the sideline. “Who the _fuck_ pissed in Usiwaka’s cheerios this morning?”

“Hopefully not me,” Bokuto commented, mouth agape. The duo teetered on the edge of fear and admiration, unsure of which side to stand.

Kageyama’s mouth ran dry. He raised his dark blue eyes to meet the spiker, who stood just feet in front of him, hunched slightly over, hands on his knees. His olive-brown hair fell in front of his face, hiding his expression.

“Umm,” the young setter began, “Ushijima-san, are you okay..?”

He lifted his head but did not meet Kageyama’s gaze. “Again,” he instructed, taking two step backs, returning the spiker’s line.

“Uh,” Kageyama’s turned over his shoulder, vying for the coach’s approval to continue. He was met with a reluctant nod, so he repeated the action, setting the ball high into the air, just like wing spiker preferred.

They continuously repeated this cycle, the rest of the Olympic team merely standing by, watching as Ushijima sent kill after kill into the wooden gymnasium floor, each attack never once losing momentum. He was letting it go; the aggression that surged through every fiber of his being, each swing carrying the onslaught of the violence he wished he could have poured out onto Oikawa’s attacker in that bathroom. Each spike harbored ever ounce of frustration he felt toward the man he always secretly safeguarded feelings for. Why wouldn’t Oikawa just stay?

“Coach?” Bokuto asked, leaning over toward the older man in a navy tracksuit. “Do you think we should stop him before he kills himself? Or someone else?”’

The gray-haired man shook his head, ice blue eyes never peeling away from the event unfolding before him. “No. It’s obvious that something needs to come out of Ushijima, something we don’t understand.” He let out a soft sigh before turning toward his player. “He’s no good with words, so we have to let him do things his way.”

Bokuto nodded, pursing his lips. He knew his coach was right, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread rising in his chest. 

Finally, when Ushijima was panting and exhausted, left hand enflamed from the excursion, shoulders trembling from fatigue, the coach blew his whistle. “Alright, Ushijima. That’s enough. Get some water and let the other hitters have a chance.”

“One more,” the spiker countered, his back toward his sensei.

“No, Ushijima. Take a break.”

Ushijima stood, cemented in place, sweat draining from every pore. He needed one more. One more set, one more jump, one more spike. Just one more and that would rid Oikawa Tooru from his mind, no doubt. That’s all he needed.

“Off the court, Wakatoshi,” the coach said finally, his voice firm but not overly loud. His tone was simple and commanding, reminding the superstar hitter who was still in charge.

“Tch,” Ushijima clicked his tongue to his teeth before taking powerful strides toward the locker room. 

Coach blew his whistle again. “Alright, Bokuto, Hinata, Kooru, Sakusa, line up. If you don’t do what Ushijima just did, you’re all doing laps until you puke.”

\-----------------

The flashing lights were addicting, each one from the reflecting stands like a set to him: it made Oikawa feel like he mattered. There, dressed in the latest Nike men’s athletic shorts, he felt like he never left the court. All eyes were on him. 

_‘Great job, Tooru!’_ the photographer would shout, praising him. 

_‘Oh my god, Oikawa has the_ best _body,’_ the sponsors would coo from the corner.

 _‘He is a rising idol in Japan!_ ’ the set directors would note.

Here, he was beloved. All of the long-winded workouts riding out on nothing to eat but the hydrocodones he choked down with a shot gin and glass of water, they all added to this. The validation of his efforts would wrap around him like a warm blanket. He would tell himself that it was a perfectly acceptable replacement for the affection he truly strived for; the affection he denied himself, and anyone, after Iwaizumi’s painful rejection.

“Oikawa!” the shoot manager called. “Last outfit change. Go ahead and get into your next set up while we photograph the next model.”

Oikawa gave a flirtatious wink. “Aye, aye!” he said with mustered enthusiasm. He actually fucking hated that director, but never failed to play nice with those who managed his work schedule. He stepped away from the set before letting out a dejected sigh. He was ready to go home and pour a nice tall glass of whiskey and soak in the bath. He could only ride on the high of the photoshoot for so long before he needed something a little stronger.

After collecting his final outfit from a female stagehand with short blond hair, he stepped behind the curtain of the changing room, sliding the thick velvet fabric shut, sealing him away with a brief moment of privacy. It wasn’t often that he got a moment to breathe while working such an elaborate gig, so it was a welcome lull in an otherwise hectic day.

“Next outfit?” Hiyori asked, carefully tugging at the privacy divider and poking his head inside.

“Fuck off,” Oikawa breathed wearily, sliding his slender legs out of shorts. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, admiring the bare body of the model. Oikawa’s back was lean and smooth, with taut obliques and defined shoulders. “How about I just fuck you instead?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Oikawa scoffed, glancing behind him. Hiyori had already squeezed himself into the changing room and was now looking the former setter up and down, golden eyes glinting with trouble.

“You have never once said it was disgusting before,” the former swimmer commented, palming Oikawa’s ass over his blue boxer briefs. 

“Yeah, well I have since changed my mind.” Oikawa harshly slapped his unwelcome hand away, turning his back toward him. He was irritated he had to do that twice in one day. “And don’t fucking touch me.”

Hiyori chuckled and returned his hands to the setter’s body, this time, placing one on each hip, a firm grip squeezing into the divots in his naked back. The former swimmer ran a thumb across the dimples, fervently trailing his own tongue across his bottom lip. “God damn, you look good,” he commented.

“Hands off,” Oikawa growled, unmoving.

A joyless chuckle escaped Hyori’s lips. “When you have ever said no?”

“I’m saying no _now_ ,” Oikawa growled, trying to thrust his hips away. “And I’m still working.”

“Hah, if you can even call those shitty photos ‘work’. I mean, you have a great body, Tooru,” Hyori acknowledged, leaning forward, his breath hot against the shell of Oikawa’s ear, “but you could never compete with a real athlete like me.” One of his large hands left Oikawa’s hips, only to snake it’s way up and spread across the expanse of his throat. “You should never forget your place.”

Oikawa shuddered under the touch, his breath hitched in his chest. Here he found himself again, in a matter of two days, trapped in an enclosed space with someone less than desirable. “Did you get that clap cleared up, Hiyori? I heard that’s what happens when you bottom for the CEO.” Oikawa’s words dripped with disdain and condemnation.

Hiyori snapped, forcefully pushing on the brunette’s windpipe as he slammed him into his chest, choking him from behind. “At least I know what it’s like to top, right Tooru? Have you ever got to be the man, ever, you little slut? Or how worn out is that hole at this point?”

Oikawa gasped, clawing at the hand around his neck, the breath struggling in his lungs. He wheezed, fighting for air, squirming beneath Hiyori’s iron-clad clutch. He felt his face going blue when a voice rose above the curtains.

“Oikawa? Are you okay? The photographer is ready for you!” the assistant called.

“Oikawa isn’t feeling well, miss. Can he skip his last set? This is Hiyori Tono.” He was calm, unphased as the setter gasped beneath him, his legs shaking. “I think it would probably be best if I took him home.”

“Oh, sure Hiyori! You’re such a good kohai! I’ll let the creative director know!” 

Hiyori listened carefully as her footsteps retreated from the changing room, and then disappeared, before releasing Oikawa, letting him fall to the floor, gasping and pale.

“See? Now you’ve got a free schedule!” Hiyori clapped his hands together excitedly, looming over the limp and hacking body below him. “So what do you say? Come back to my place, do a few lines, do a few shots, and see how many times I can make you cry?”

Oikawa lifted his half-lidded eyes, gaze clearly conflicted. “Fuck you,” he breathed through clenched teeth. He gingerly touched his scorched throat with his left hand, right forearm flush against the tile floor, propping himself up. He sputtered, saliva clinging to his pink lips, running down his pointed chin, tears brimming his glassy eyes.

“Aww, Tooru,” Hiyori murmured, lifting his left foot and resting a heavy combat boot on the setter’s right knee. Oikawa winced, fear shooting through his veins as his heart skipped a beat. “I plan on doing the fucking, thank you though!”

_Not my knee. Please, not my knee._

“How about it, Oikawa? Want to get dressed and get in the car like a good little junkie so we can get on with our date?” His smug smile spread across his face, lips turned up, wild eyes flashing.

“Okay,” he finally whispered through a strained gasp. “Just let me up.”

Hiyori lifted his leg and stretched a hand down, offering to help peel the model off of the tiles. The pseudo-kindness of the gesture made Oikawa’s stomach turn. He wished he hated this bastard.

\------------

“Good work today, guys!” Coach yelled, clapping his hands. “Line up real quick, we have some things to go over about the schedule.” The players obeyed, hustling toward center court. 

For Ushijima, practice had kept the same pace, never once slowing down or letting up. Every drill kept the same momentum and ardor, the indignation never once subsiding within him. He knew his behavior was causing waves of concern among his teammates, but he couldn’t hold back. He wanted his body to shut down. He wanted the incessant thoughts of Oikawa to just sleep.

“First of all, I just want to say, I don’t know what the hell got into you today, Ushijima, but that was some solid work. Make sure you hit the massage therapist tomorrow before you come in,” he instructed. Ushijima turned his head away and grunted a response, gripping his water bottle tight enough that the plastic bowed beneath his grasp. 

The coach continued, arms folded across his chest. “Now, obviously the Olympics are about 6 months away. This may seem like a lot of time to hone our skills and prepare, but it’s not. You know that. We do have an advantage this year with Japan being the host country, but that puts all the more pressure on us. We don’t have an excuse of jet lag or travel fatigue,” he ran his gaze across the faces of his team. Everyone was reddened and sweating, clearly motivated to keep up with Ushijima. “There is no reason we can’t perform to the caliber we have come to know and expect.

“That being said, this coming weekend marks the start of my least favorite part of the Olympics - getting all the sponsorship bullshit done,” he let out a heavy sigh as he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Half of the team let out a collective sigh with him; Bokuto and Kuroo basically squealed with delight. Coach waved a disapproving hand their way.

“Like I said, it’s _my_ least favorite part, mostly because it’s time-consuming and distracts my best players with frivolous diversions. However,” the older coach shot an index finger in the air, “it must be done to maintain the budget we need to keep you assholes fed and in top gear. Saturday night, I expect each and every one of you to show up in your best suit to the Nike sponsorship party at the Grand Hotel downtown.” He dipped his chin and lowered his gaze. “ _No exceptions._ ”

“Yaaaasss!” Bokuto thrust his arms skyward, followed by a cheerful howl. “Par-tay!” He immediately began swaying his hips, which Kuroo and Hinata quickly imitated. This action afforded an irritated scowl from both Kageyama and Sakusa, though the former did softly chuckle at the red-headed decoy in a way he hoped went unnoticed.

“Are there models at this party?” Kuroo asked, golden eyes wide.

“Lots!” Atsumu exclaimed, nodding vigorously. 

Ushijima raised a thick eyebrow. Models? Did that mean that Oikawa might be there?

“What about food?” Hinata asked, hands clasped in front of his jersey. “And is it free?”

“Food and alcohol are always free at a sponsorship event, dumb ass,” Kageyama chastized, rolling his eyes. “That’s why it’s called sponsorship.”

“Ahh!! I’m gonna eat so much! And if there’s music, it’ll be all like, ‘whoosh’ and ‘ahh’! So fun!” He was vibrating in place, shifting from toe to toe. 

“If we must go, everyone must still keep their distance,” Sakusa reminded them as he stood about six feet away from his closest teammate. 

“Yes, yes,” coach held up his hand, attempting to quiet the dull roar of conversation that had erupted. “Half of you will hate it, half of you won’t. Either way, keep your pants zipped and your head screwed on straight and we’ll get this shit done and over with. We have several to attend before the opening ceremony in July, so for the love of God, don’t go too hard, and please be on your best behavior. Remember, you represent your great nation!” The men clasped their arms to their sides, simultaneously letting out ‘yes sir!’, accompanied with a quick bow. “Okay, dismissed! Get some rest!”

Ushijima broke away first, disinterested in hanging around and making small talk about the sponsorship party. He wanted to shower off and go home, do something to relieve the gnawing pain in his shoulders and calves. He knew he pushed it a little too much today but he didn’t regret it, not if it finally meant a night of rest.

“Oi, Ushiwaka,” Miya called, jogging to catch up to his peer. “Hold on.”

Ushijima froze in his spot, just a few paces from the locker room door. “I have somewhere to be, Miya-san.”

“ _San_?” the blond setter laughed. “Since when?”

“Since you’re keeping me from where I would like to be.”

“Oh?” he wiggled his dark eyebrows in a taunt. “And where is that?”

With a look that could kill, Ushijima glanced over his left shoulder. “Home.”

“Hah,” Miya chocked a little, taken aback by the severity of his senior’s glare. “Alright then, damn. I was just coming to check on you.”

Ushijima turned back around. “I am fine. Worry instead about how someone a full year younger than you is demonstrating setting skills beyond even your most astute of performances.” 

Miya’s face flushed, chocolate-colored eyes melting into twin daggers as he took an angry step forward. “Hey, just watch your mo--”

A heavy hand caught his slender wrist, preventing him from getting any closer to the large spiker. “Let him go,” Bokuto advised, his words taking an unusually serious tone. “Just shake it off.”

The duo watched as the stoic man rolled his shoulders back, ever-prideful, then disappeared into the locker room, his exit accentuated with a flourishing ‘slam’ of the door.

“What the fuck, dude?” Miya asked, running an anxious hand over the back of his neck. He let out the heavy breath he didn’t even realize he had been holding.

“Right?” Bokuto agreed, leaning forward, weight on his heels, pressing his palms into his thick thighs.

“Did Ushijima just... show an emotion?” Kuroo asked from somewhere just behind them, clearly confused.

“I think… he tried?” Miya acknowledged, nodding. “Who taught him how to slam doors?”

“It’s weird,” added Bokuto, running his right hand through his sweaty two-toned hair. 

“Totally,” Sakusa chimed in as he flanked the group.

“O-oh!! We should get him laid at the sponsorship party! I bet that’s why he’s so mad!” Kuroo interjected. “I mean, I know when I’m pissed, it’s because I’m all pent up.”

Kageyama stuck out his tongue and scrunched his face. “Gross.”

“Just because you have a boy toy in Hinata doesn’t mean the rest of us have a place to go on the reg, okay?” Kuroo retorted, folding his arms over his chest. 

“B-boy toy? What’s that?” the little giant asked curiously, cocking his head to the side, pointing to himself. The color immediately left Kageyama’s face.

The response warranted laughs from Kuroo, Bokuto, and Miya alike. “Wow,” the blond setter chuckled. “Poor kid doesn’t even know what he is!”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Bokuto cleared his throat, trying to reset the conversation. “Back to the matter at hand! Operation ‘Find Ushijwaka Someone to Fuck at the Sponsorship Party’ starts….” he glanced down at an imaginary watch on his left wrist, “... NOW!”

“Does this mean we have to take his giant ass to find a suit?” Kuroo whined. 

“Uh, duh! Coach said we all had to wear suits and the last time Ushi-baka put one on, it was some tan piece of thrift store looking trash I wouldn’t even bury my least favorite grandfather in!” Bokuto stuck his index finger partway in his mouth, imitating gagging. 

“Bokuto, did you just imagine that was Akaashi’s dick?” Miya smirked.

“What?!” the owl groaned, slapping his cheeks with open palms. “Even fucking Miya knows?!”

“Everyone knows,” states Kuroo.

“Yeah, everyone,” Miya nodded.

“Except Akaashi… probably.”

“Except Akaashi probably knows,” Kuroo added lastly, giving an indifferent shrug.

Bokuto collapsed to the gym floor in one dramatic, flamboyant motion. He tried shielding the shame on his face with two solid forearms, his back against the solid wood floor. “You gotta be kidding me,” he wailed. “That’s some bull shit!!”

“Hang in there, buddy,” Hinata offered, reaching down to gently pat his knee in comfort. “Akaashi would be really lucky to have you!”

“Aaaaannnnd some broad would be lucky to have Ushijima!” Kuroo stated, trying to bring the conversation back around to the task at hand as if he wasn’t partially guilty of its derailment. 

“Jesus, if we agree to take him suit shopping, will that end this shitty conversation so we can move on with our day?” Sakusa asked, scowling. “I have a lot of cleaning that needs to be done before I can even think of resting tonight.”

“Tomorrow we take him, then?” Kageyama asked, also eager to be done and past this conversation. Everyone nodded, even Bokuto from his spot, still pouting on the gym floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's the deal with Hiyori. I can't stand the dude. Least favorite character in Free by far. I know I brought in an exterior character from the Haikyuu fandom, but I love all of our Haikyuu boys and couldn't make anyone be a douche to Oikawa. Also, I didn't want to create an OC, because well, it's just not as fun as writing Hiyori out to be the already possessive bastard he is. Also, he is extremely good looking and could totally pass for a model / cocaine dealer / whatever it is he exactly ends up being. Anyway, I hope you guys don't mind I brought him in and sorry if you like him lol. (but also not sorry)
> 
> I tried to lighten the end of this chapter up with some humor from some of our favorite best boys!
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments I've gotten so far, it really means a lot to me!
> 
> Next time: a glimpse into the past


	4. The Ties That Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a monster chapter, sorry. I didn't intend for it to be this large, or to cover what it did. I basically reworked my story structure (for the better). I spent a lot of time trying to make this chapter perfect, but I'm sure it's not. Anyway, don't hate me by the end of it.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: drug use, referenced sexual / domestic / partnership violence, blurred lines of consent

_3 Years Earlier_

  
It couldn’t have been a more beautiful June day, the sun high in the brilliant blue sky, dipping behind large, white clouds that floated casually along with the warm breeze. The late spring flowers bloomed vibrant colors along the cobblestone walkway leading to the temple. Everything was picturesque and pristine. 

Yes, it was the perfect day for a wedding.

Oikawa straightened his slim black tie and took a staggering breath before continuing his walk to the wedding venue that was tucked away just behind the temple. He had been running last-minute errands for the bride and groom all morning: directing the florist to the temple, giving the final headcount numbers to the caterer, and even making a flying trip to the airport to retrieve a bridesmaid whose original flight had been delayed.

But finally, this was it. This was Iwa-chan’s wedding day. Oikawa had been mentally preparing for it for eight months, ever since his best friend bounded into their shared apartment, just at the turn of the seasons, and showed him the ring he bought for his long-term girlfriend, Risa. 

“What do you think?” Iwa-chan had asked him, holding up the velvet box that housed the rose-gold band, topped with a sparkling princess cut diamond. It was elegant and tasteful, suited perfectly to his mature eye. “Do you think she will say yes?”

As he attempted to mask all the rage and jealously and confusion that shredded his chest, Oikawa only nodded and said, “she would be foolish not to.”

And he meant those words.

“Do you like the rose gold? Is it classy?”

“Rose gold is my favorite.” 

And it really was.

“I’m going to ask her at Christmas. I know it’s a few months away, but I think it will be really romantic.”

He was right, it was absolutely romantic. Iwaizumi stuck to his plan, taking Risa down to the towering fir tree in the center of the shopping square that was lit up for the holiday. It was sparkling red and white, adorned with tinsel and oversized, shimmering ornaments. Dressed in his best slacks, a red button-down, and a black pea coat with a winter white scarf elegantly wrapped around his neck, he got down on one knee and popped the question, all while Oikawa dutifully filmed the affair with his phone. When Risa said yes and threw herself into the green-eyed man’s arms, tears streamed down Oikawa’s face. 

Even though he could feel his heart shattering as he watched the love of his life scoop up the love of his, Iwa-chan’s masculine laughter warmed the pit of his stomach, soothing him almost like medicine.

“Oh, Tooru!” Risa exclaimed, reaching out to wipe their friend’s damp cheek. “Hajime, look how happy Tooru is for us!”

Iwa-chan pulled him in for a tight hug. Oikawa felt the frosty nip of the spiker’s cold nose as it casually brushed his neck during the embrace. “Tooru, you’ll be my best man, right?” 

The setter squeezed him tight, lean arms engulfing him. He never wanted to let go. If he stayed here, swept away in this moment, it was fine; he would ask for nothing else. “I will,” he choked on those words, barely audible, his breath hot and shaky in Iwaizumi’s ear. He squeezed his eyes shut, the pent up tears burned so bad. “Of course I will.”

“You’re so sweet to cry, Tooru,” the woman gushed, pushing her left hand against her ruddy face, the ring catching the twinkle of the Christmas lights. He only sobbed harder into Hajime’s scarf.

Risa didn’t understand Oikawa’s tears at all.

Just like he didn’t understand his own now as he walked through the venue, pushing toward the bridal suite. He didn’t know why he was crying anymore- he told himself he had accepted it, he even spent countless hours and dozens of sleepless nights convincing himself of that. He had to accept it if he was truly going to be the best man and stand beside his lifelong friend up at the alter. Iwa-chan was the one person who had always been a constant in his life, he owed him that much.

Through high school, both on and off the court, Iwaizumi was there, a solid foundation for him to stand on, equipped with tough love and witty insults. When Oikawa went away to Tokyo for college, Hajime followed him, even though the spiker didn’t continue with volleyball; they just wanted to rent an apartment and keep going to school together. He was even in the crowd the day Oikawa tore his ACL during a heated match of the All Collegiate Finals his sophomore year, the injury singlehandedly destroying his career as he collapsed to the floor. Iwa-chan brought him his favorite flowers to the hospital after his operation, though he never once left the hospital during the duration of Oikawa’s stay, opting to camp out in the cramped waiting room until visiting hours started. Iwaizumi even drove him to all of his physical therapy sessions and other post-op appointments, making sure his recovery was progressing properly.

Iwa-chan even was the first to notice that Oikawa was taking too many of his pain pills and acting strangely out of character, noting that he was losing weight, sleeping irregularly, and overall, was just joyless. He wanted to blame the erratic behavior on the circumstance, but he knew something was amiss once the heavy drinking also started.

So Iwaizumi confronted him, much to the setter’s displeasure. They fought and fought over Oikawa’s addiction, it driving a tremendous wedge between them. But nevertheless, Iwa-chan was the one who held him accountable, keeping him in check, providing him a hand to hold at support groups and therapy sessions, never once enabling his toxic behaviors.

So when Oikawa hit 6 months clean and sober a few days before the wedding, he gave his sobriety coin to the person that meant the most to him: Iwa-chan. He had come to the meeting as his sponsor, taking time out of his hectic wedding week preparations to watch as his recovery group presented him with the blue token, a proud smirk on his handsome face.

Never once did his best friend fail to be there. His success in staying clean was all thanks to the raven-haired boy. Oikawa knew it was due time for him to return the favor; he couldn’t be selfish.

After wiping his tears and cleaning his face, Oikawa raised a closed hand, letting a gentle rap of his knuckles fall upon the door. There was only an hour before the ceremony started and Oikawa knew the groom was likely due for a pep talk. “Yeah?” called Iwaizumi’s deep voice from inside the room. “Shiitykawa, that you?”

The setter laughed in response and opened the door, painting on his best brave face, leaning on the knob as he stepped inside. Iwaizumi turned around and Oikawa’s breath caught in his throat. Iwaizumi Hajime was so flawless, so gorgeous, dressed in a well-tailored all-black tux, the smoke-gray lapels flush to his broad chest. The stark white of the dress shirt underneath the coat brightened the spiker’s face, illuminating his rich, emerald eyes and dark facial features. The ensemble was complete with a jet-black silk bowtie, which rested untied around the popped collar of his dress shirt. Oikawa blinked, stunned. 

Oikawa knew Iwaizumi was handsome, that was certainly no mystery. He also knew the feelings he harbored for his spiker weren’t just that of familial or brotherly love. It was real love, love for a partner. Iwa-chan was someone he wanted to be held by, to go on dates with, to kiss, and even make love to. 

He wanted them to get married, even if they legally never could. He wanted them to come home to each other after a long day at their jobs, talk about their problems, and office drama, and spreadsheets and projects and business trips. He wanted them to dance in their kitchen, holding each other close as they kissed, soaking in their favorite song. He wanted them to fall into their king-sized bed and explore each other’s bodies, leaving nothing untouched, no pleasure untapped. He wanted to know what it was like to have Iwaizumi inside of him, hands splayed across his naked and narrow hips, lips locked in endless passion.

Yes, he knew without a shred of doubt that what he felt for Iwaizumi Hajime went far beyond the bounds of childhood friends. 

“Do I look bad?” Iwaizumi asked, looking down at his shiny black dress shoes. A light dusting of pink warmed his cheeks. He anxiously ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, so completely different from his usual tough-guy spikes.

Oikawa vigorously shook his head. “Iwa-chan, you could never,” he replied softly, raising his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hah, easy for you to say, Shitty-kawa. You could make a paper sack look good!” he laughed, green eyes shimmering with joy, little creases folding in the corners. 

Oikawa smirked and took another step closer to the groom, softly shutting the door behind him. “Well, I am trying to start modeling here soon. I guess that means my marketing degree is going to be basically useless.” He let out a nervous laugh; he couldn’t get over how stunning his Iwa-chan was.

“Yeah, yeah,” Iwaizumi waved him off, turning his attention to the silver flask sitting on the desk to his right. He picked it up and took a long swig, before slamming it down with a satisfied ‘ah’.

The theatrics caused Oikawa to giggle. “Wow, drinking already?”

The groom shrugged. “‘S my wedding day, anyway,” he slurred a little, touching his bottom lip with the back of his hand. “Just a little something to calm me down.” A bolt of realization hit him then, promptly causing him to forcefully stuff the flask inside the interior pocket of his jacket. “...and holy shit I’m the worst fucking sponsor ever.”

Oikawa laughed once more, shaking his head, his features bright. “Just put it away, that’s what I’m here for, anyway! I even rehearsed a speech and everything!” Oikawa reached out to force his former teammate to square his shoulders, their faces only a few inches apart. The best man immediately began work on tying the bowtie that still hung around the groom’s neck.

“Okay, then let’s hear it, Winston Churchill,” he jested. 

Oikawa rolled his hazel eyes. “No pressure, right?” He laughed as he looped the silk tie over itself, getting closer to making a bow.

“Nah, none at all. This is just the single most important day of my life.”

“Fuck you, Iwa-chan.”

“Okay, seriously, though, I want to hear it.”

Oikawa didn’t reply, his lips pursed in concentration as he tried making the bowtie perfect. Really, no pressure. He hummed a little as adjusted the knot.

“I have your sobriety coin in my pocket today,” Iwaizumi stated, breaking the silence. Oikawa could feel the groom’s intense gaze on him even without lifting his eyes.

A nervous ‘ah’ fluttered from his chest. “Why?” he asked simply, unable to string together a longer sentence.

“They give brides this list of tokens they’re supposed to keep with them on their wedding day or whatever,” Iwaizumi explained, “but they don’t give the groom a list or tell them to do special things... I don’t know.” He sighed, thinking of his words carefully. “I wouldn’t call it like, a good luck charm or whatever. But it’s special to me, and it reminds me that even the most difficult of circumstances can be overcome... It reminds me to be strong, like you, and it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.”

Oikawa coiffed his now-finished bow and smoothed down the collar of Iwaizumi’s dress shirt. He really did look absolutely perfect. The silence continued for a few long seconds until Oikawa finally spoke. “All I wanted to say to you today was that you are a wonderful, beautiful man, and you deserve nothing but good things in the lifetime.” 

He couldn’t look him in the eye, instead, his gaze boring a hole right through the center of the spiker’s broad chest, where his hands now so casually rested, fingertips yearning to splay across the expanse of skin waiting just below the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath before he finally whispered, “and that I would give anything to trade places with Risa.”

The last sentence slipped his tongue and floated into the room, the once playful and celebratory atmosphere suddenly turning heavy. He wanted to believe that he regretted saying it. He wanted to lie and say that he wished more than anything he could take the words back. But he didn’t. He meant what he said with all of his heart. His only regret was that he had waited so long to say them.

“Why, because you wanna wear a pretty white dress, too?” Iwaizumi joked, trying to mask the uncomfortable and stifling aura; he felt like he was suffocating. He kept his gaze locked on Oikawa’s face, tracing every feature, hoping for a sign of humor, a hint that he was ‘just kidding’, but alas, one never came.

Oikawa squeezed the lapels of the tuxedo jacket, balling them in his closed fists. “N-no,” he whispered, fighting the moisture building in his eyes. “That’s not what I mean.”

Iwaizumi grabbed his best man’s wrists, clutching them tightly underneath his substantial grip, causing the setter to let out a little squeak of pain. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, tone angry and confused. “Then what exactly do you mean?”

“I-Iwa-chan,” Oikawa stuttered, a sob building in his throat. “I mean that I am in love with you!” It was all leaving him now, the confession he bottled for so long. His hands trembled, his lips quivered, his feet felt numb.

Iwaizumi stood very still, his expression snared in bewilderment. “...what?” 

“I have been in love with you since we were eight years old! Do you remember when we were walking home from school one day and I was foolish enough to say we should walk along the river even though my mom told us not to because it had been raining and the banks were soft?” Iwaizumi knew this story like the back of his hand, not just because he had lived it, but because it was one of the scariest moments of their childhood. Oikawa loved to tell this story at parties or to friends whenever someone would question Iwaizumi’s strength or abilities or even his loyalty to the tall setter.

“But I didn’t listen, and I went down there anyway. And when the bank gave out beneath me, what did you do?” Words were flying out of him, speaking as if Iwaizumi hadn’t been there, or that he’d somehow forgotten. Of course, he knew what he did next. Oikawa would never let him forget about it.

“You just dived in to save me from drowning because you knew I couldn’t swim but really, neither could you. And when you dragged me out of there and we were both so blue from choking and spitting up water, I asked you why you did that, why you risked your life, too. And do you know what you said? Do you remember?” 

He did. He remembered it verbatim, clear as day. They were sitting on the river bank quite a way down from where Oikawa fell, clothes drenched and soaking them to the bone. They were scared and clinging to each other for warmth. Oikawa’s backpack had been swept away with the current, and Iwaizumi couldn’t remember where he threw his just before jumping into the swollen and rushing waters. But that didn’t matter, because they had each other, and they were safe.

“You said it was better to die together than to live without me.” Tears were burning now, almost slicing Oikawa’s reddened cheekbones. “ _ You _ said that, Hajime. You said that to  _ me! _ ” He thrust a shaky finger at his best friend before jabbing into his own chest, the other hand still balled into an angry fist in Iwaizumi’s jacket. “Well I don’t want to live without either.” he disclosed, unable to completely govern his emotions. “I don’t want to live without you either, Iwa-chan, because I love you!”

Iwaizumi covered his mouth, pressing the back of his hand into trembling lips, a reply completely lost on him. He was not entirely sure when it was he let go of Oikawa’s wrists, but he wasn’t holding onto him anymore. His knees felt weak, his heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt his ribs might crack. A thousand thoughts circled in his mind, causing his blood to run cold. He could only stare at the desperate sight before him as he remained utterly speechless. 

The only sounds in the room for a good long minute were the inconsistent shudders rising from Oikawa as he continued to cry. When the best man spoke again, his whisper was almost earth-shattering, pushing out his question through a parched and cracked throat. “D-do, you love me, too, Iwa-chan?”

/////  
\----------------

_ Present Day _

“They’re not going to have his size in stock, I would bet you a five thousand yen,” Kuroo declared, smacking his hand on the sprawling oak countertop. 

“You don’t even have five thousand yen,” Bokuto snapped back, rolling his golden eyes. 

“Fuck yeah I do!” Kuroo huffed, pulling a black billfold from his back pocket and opening it, showcasing the colorful bills inside. “Just look!”

“Wow, Kuroo! Are you taking us all out for ice cream after this?” Miya asked, sarcastically clasping his hands under his chin and ruefully batting his long lashes.

“Hell no! I wouldn’t buy you guys shit!” Kuroo snarled, putting his hands on hips and sticking his nose in the air, disgusted.

“So  _ everyone  _ here needs a new suit…?” asked a timid employee as he approached from behind the counter. He was a middle-aged man and barely taller than Hinata, with thinning, jet black hair, and small, brown eyes. 

“Nah, just this dude,” Bokuto gestured, throwing his thumb back. “He needs a new A-S-A-P.”

“Did you just spell out the word ‘ASAP’?” Sakusa asked, raising an eyebrow. His expressions were sometimes hard to read when he wore his mask, but the annoyance in his eyes was quite evident.

“Yeah, it’s an abbreviation, duh.” Bokuto stuck out his tongue. “Didn’t any of you pay attention in school?”

Kageyama scowled. “It’s not an abbreviation.”

Bokuto turned around. “What isn’t?”

“ASAP.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s an  _ acronym _ , stupid,” Kuroo corrected.

Bokuto shook his head. “Well, either way, it needs to be spelled out.”

“Dude, that’s still not right.”

Ushijima stepped forward, breaking up the petty argument. He had been standing near the back of the small formalwear store, admiring the many styles and colors of ties housed in the wall-height display case. While browsing, he couldn’t help but wonder if Oikawa had ever modeled suits before…

“Oh yeah, Ushibaka!” Kuroo hollered. “Come stand on the pedestal thing and let this dude measure you so I can see if I am winning this bet.”

“Also think about what flavor of ice cream you want!” Miya added, chiming the words in a mocking, sing-song cadence.

“Shut up! No ice cream!”

“Like, ever?” Hinata asked, his eyes wide with concern.

“We can go have ice cream after this,” Kageyama grumbled under his breath, arms folded across his chest. “Just be quiet.”

“Woohoo!” the ginger boy threw his arms in the air. “Ice cream!”

“Hinata, you’re an adult and an Olympic volleyball player. You realize you can just go get ice cream whenever you want, right?” Miya asked, taking on a sneering tone. 

Hinata thought a moment, giving off a soft hum of concentration. “Well, of course, I know that. But ice cream tastes better when you eat it together with your friends. So if all of us went, imagine how good it would taste!”

“Oh my god, I’m gonna explode!” Bokuto squealed, hands balled up by his face. “That was the most precious thing I have ever heard!”

Kageyama looked away, attempting to conceal his growing blush. “Just shut up about the ice cream already.”

“Yeah, no fucking ice cream!” Kuroo reiterated. “This whole conversation is nonsense.”

“This whole trip is nonsense,” Sakusa added. “We don’t all need to be here just so Ushijima can get a suit,”

Bokuto pinched his eyebrows together in a scowl. “This is team building! And we all need to make sure he actually leaves here with a decent suit or we’ll be embarrassed come Saturday for that party!”

“Ah, all done!” the tailor stated, getting off of the little step stool he had needed to use to measure the tall spiker. He took the pen from behind his ear and scribbled a few numbers into his notebook.

“What’s the verdict? You got anything for this behemoth to wear?” Kuroo asked, cocking an eyebrow as he looked Ushijima up and down. He really was a statuesque man, and it was made all the more evident when he stood in the tight enclosure of the shop’s gallery.

The shop employee tilted his head to one side and hummed. “I think I do, but I will have to clean it up a bit to accommodate his shoulders.”

“So he can’t leave here with it today?” Kuroo clarified, eyeing Bokuto. 

The employee shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but it will be ready for you to pick up on Friday afternoon. So he will have it before your soiree.”

“HAH!” roared Kuroo, turning on his heel to face his teammate with the dual-toned hair. “Five thousand fucking yen, Bokuto. Pay up!” he thrust his hand in front of him, palm up, his expression smug.

“Kuroo, Bokuto never even took your bet. He just said he didn’t believe that you had five thousand yen,” Miya interjected before Bokuto could speak.

Kuroo’s face fell and he scrunched his nose in confusion. “Wait, what?”

“Nobody was going to take your bet, stupid,” Kageyama added. “Of course they don’t have an exact fit for Ushijima in the store. He’s not really a standard size, dumb ass.”

“B-b-but,” the dark-haired cat sputtered, “he thought we were betting, didn’t you Bokuto?”

“Don’t answer him,” Sakusa advised. “Not unless you want actually purchase everyone’s ice cream.”

“Sakusa, are you coming to ice cream, too?” Hinata asked excitedly.

“If I don’t, then I have no idea what the fucking purpose of this team building was.”

\--------------------------

It was always the same thing with Hyori. They would meet up, go to his penthouse, do a few lines of cocaine then almost always immediately follow it up with several rounds of mindblowing sex. They would repeat the last two steps until their throbbing and sweating bodies gave out and neither one could move.

Oikawa didn’t always hate Hiyori. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he even actually hated him now. When he first debuted in the modeling industry just a few months after Iwaizumi’s wedding, Hiyori was really kind to him. Since he was also a former athlete, he knew exactly what to say to Oikawa to make him feel at ease. He also gave really good direction and brought the setter along to prominent parties and included him on shoots that he wouldn’t have been able to get with his own merit. 

Hiyori was charismatic and often possessive, but it never exactly came off as threatening or scary, at least not at first. It didn’t take much for their physical relationship to unfold. It was easy enough, Hiyori was tall and sexy and built - he was the perfect distraction from Iwa-chan. While Hiyori was notorious for being a player to both men and women alike, Oikawa still handed over his body willingly, eager for an escape, desperate to feel wanted by someone. 

He had so tirelessly tried to cling to his sobriety after that fateful wedding day. He had relapsed a few times, but he always fought harder, willing himself to be the man that Iwaizumi saw him as. He wanted to fill those shoes, even if Iwa-chan was no longer a part of his life. But he still made the mistake so many of those in sobriety often do: he found himself in an environment that did not foster his recovery.

Hiyori was wild. He made money, good money, and spent almost every last bit of it on his many vices. Oikawa came to find out that drugs were one of these and for the small price of his body, Hiyori was very generous. Oikawa always stayed fed the first year of their hazardous ‘relationship’ - he wasn’t even sure if that’s what it could be called. 

Instead of the intimate dancing, the long talks, and the gentle lovemaking he had pictured with Iwaizumi, he found himself filling their days with the carnal pounding of flesh and the burning beckoning of his high. It was in these days that Hiyori turned dark, igniting his most perverse of fantasies on Oikawa, who simply went along with things out of fear he would be cut off from his supply. 

He remembered after one bender in particular that Hiyori had confessed his 'love' for the setter, telling him that he didn’t want Oikawa looking at anyone else or even talking to the other models when they were on set. He fought this, saying that they weren’t in a relationship and even if they were, that was taking things too far, that he had no idea what real love was.

That was the first time Hiyori had hit him outside of sexual play. His deviant desires often lead him to strike, spank, or even choke Oikawa during intercourse, but he always had it under control. But Oikawa’s defiance pushed him over the edge, leading him to hit the brunette across his unsuspecting face.

Hiyori got on his knees and begged for forgiveness, immediately saying he was sorry, ambled by a list of half-hearted excuses: 

“I just got so jealous.” 

“I’m never usually this angry.” 

“I am so tired and worn out, babe. Please don’t act like this.” 

The last one was Oikawa’s favorite: he loved when Hiyori gaslighted him into believing his behavior was the inexcusable one.

They stayed in this vicious cycle for months, all under the agreement that they weren’t really in a relationship, but Oikawa could still never leave. And in return, he got all the illicit drugs he could ask for and all of the top modeling gigs he could want. 

What happened next was almost predictable, had Oikawa been paying attention. He became so numb and complacent that Hiyori grew bored of his game, eager to find his next victim. Oikawa wasn’t fun anymore once he wasn’t willing to put a fight. Hiyori figured out that he loved the thrill of a power struggle more than raw, unadulterated pleasure- if his partner was going to roll over and take the abuse, he simply couldn’t get aroused.

Their ‘break up’ was clean at first: Hiyori told him to move on and so would he. They would continue to see each other at gigs and events, but nothing else. This agreement worked for a while but as many toxic relationships often find, misery is magnetic. The pair would often reunite under the coercion of mutual neediness and desire, derailing their original boundaries: Oikawa needed to get high and Hiyori needed someone he could control. Even though they weren’t exclusive, Hiyori’s jealousy and violent outbursts were kept at bay for the most part.

Hiyori’s drug of choice was cocaine, though Oikawa wasn’t a big fan of the substance in particular. It was an ‘upper’ and he found it too stimulating. Even though it made their sex wild and animalistic, heightened his senses and caused every nerve ending in his body to explode, he fucking hated it.

Alcohol and pain pills were perfect for him because they were ‘downers’, dulling him from feeling anything. With opiates or alcohol, he couldn’t feel the pressure his family put on him to continue to be successful, even without volleyball. He couldn’t feel the all-consuming agony of losing his beloved Iwa-chan. He couldn’t feel the aching in his tired, lethargic body that was begging him to stop. He couldn’t feel the immense self-loathing he harbored in every chasm of his bones. He could just lay there on his bare apartment floor, unfeeling and sensationless. 

“Water?” Hiyori asked as he sat up, throwing the thin white sheet off of his thick legs. He glanced at the figure beside him. Oikawa was laying on his stomach, arms curled under his pillow, his face turned away. His chestnut locks were matted to his head, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck.

“Oi, Tooru,” Hiyori repeated, leaning in. “Do you want some water?”

Oikawa weakly shook his head.

“Tooru,” Hiyori’s tone changed; it was soothing and comforting, the setter’s name rolling low in his throat. “Babe, you need to drink something.” He placed a gentle, chaste kiss on his flushed and feverish cheek. 

“Whiskey,” the setter replied hoarsely.

“Water first or you might die!” Hiyori forced a laugh.

“Maybe that’s the fucking point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so first of all: super fucking sorry y'all. That was a lot sadder than I had originally intended but what's done is done. My original intention was also to not reveal what happened with Iwa-chan until later in the fic, but I ultimately decided against it. I started writing it and it just came out and I reworked my fic because of it. 
> 
> Secondly, them going to the tux shop was basically filler to keep this whole chapter from being just a miserable wasteland. 
> 
> I know this is some heavy stuff, but please bear with me as we get back to the real reason we're here: UshiOi. 
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos!! It means a lot and I use them to fuel my desire to keep writing. I won't talk about how many hours I spent on this chapter alone.
> 
> Educational note: I don't know if Japan has AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) or NA (Narcotics Anonymous), but we're going to pretend they do. We do here in the U.S., and both of my parents were active in the program. When someone reaches a milestone in their sobriety, they receive a token commemorating the time span. 1 Day, 7 Days, 30 days, 3 months, 6 months, etc. The tokens are usually coins that are color-coded to correspond with the milestones I just mentioned. Sometimes, the sober person can choose to give their coin / token to their sponsor, or someone they value or accredit their successes in sobriety to.
> 
> "Drug of Choice" is a standard term in the recovery community. Not always, but for the most part, people have one drug of choice. They can use other drugs, but have one they prefer over the others. While it's not always so black and white, these usually fall under 'uppers' (cocaine, ecstasy, meth, and other stimulants) or 'downers' (pain pills, alcohol, Valium, and other depressants). Most people tend to prefer one category over the other. Mixing drugs between the two columns is absolutely lethal.
> 
> Side note that isn't even remotely educational: Hiyori Tono is a douche, you can't change my mind. Yes, even if were never in this story, still a douche.
> 
> Next time: we will actually get to the party next time, like I said, I kinda derailed lol.


	5. Anywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I will add way more notes at the bottom. Sorry, my title sucks on this one, I will probably change it, I just wanted to get his bad boy up. Also, sorry it's a monster chapter lol.
> 
> I will add trigger warnings below, but they also contain mild spoilers for this chapter. So only read the TW's if you don't mind spoilers. 
> 
> **WARNINGS**  
> \- Violence (fist fighting)  
> \- Explicit sexual content

The National Team was standing in their private suite near the top floor of the Grand Hotel, the venue for their first sponsorship party of the year. Some of the largest companies in Japan, including well-known tech conglomerates and athletic brands, had paid for each player to have their own room, as well as a shared suite for socializing.

Bokuto had picked up Ushijima’s suit for him a few hours prior and brought it to the hotel with him. After taking it out of the bag, the ace vehemently refused to wear it. “It’s not my style,” he grumbled, eyeing the designer outfit.

“Well, before this you _had_ no style, so this _is_ your style now,” the owl explained, thrusting it into his teammate’s hands. “And you’re gonna look damn good in it.”

“What other options do I have?” Ushijima asked half-heartedly, knowing full well he wasn’t going to get another choice.

“Either wear the suit or attend the party in your boxers,” Kuroo suggested from his perch near the back of the suite. He was seated in one of the tall pub chairs, his long legs crossed elegantly in front of him. He was dressed in a deep maroon suit with a jet black undershirt and corresponding shoes, a darling black bow tie with maroon polka dots accented the outfit.

Bokuto’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, yes, do that!” He clasped his hands together, obviously a little too enthusiastic about the prospect. His suit was smoke gray, with a white undershirt and a pale blue skinny tie.

“Bo, save your gay for Akaashi!” Kuroo whooped, raising his flute of champagne in a teasing manner.

Bokuto snapped his head around and took a lunging step at the dark-haired hitter. “Mind your business!”

Ushijima rolled his eyes and disappeared into the suite bathroom to change clothes. He stripped down to his heather gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs, removing the jeans and hoodie he had been wearing. He eyed the suit that was still in the clear protective bag that was hanging on the back of the door. He looked down at himself, then back up at the suit. There was no way in _hell_ he could attend the gala in underwear, especially ones that looked as little and tight on his thick thighs. 

_Monkey suit it is_ , he thought as he unzipped the bag.

\---------------

“Daaaaammnnn,” Kuroo said, then followed it by a low whistle. 

“Double damn,” agreed Bokuto.

“Ushijima, you look really, like _bwah_!” exclaimed Hinata, pulling his hands apart into a big circle around his head. The short spiker was dressed in tan suit pants, opting for a matching vest instead of a suit coat.

“I’d fuck you,” Miya admitted flatly, taking a long drink from his champagne flute. His suit was classic black, opting for a pop of color with a deep green tie and a striped pocket square.

“Huh?” Hinata asked, eyes wide, his face flushed. “M-Miya!” 

“What?” he asked, raising his shoulders in a casual shrug. “When he looks like that, who wouldn’t?”

“Are we all kinda gay for Ushiwaka?” Bokuto asked, questioningly raising a thick eyebrow. 

“Hell no!” yelled Kageyama from his spot on the expensive leather couch. He looked a little uncomfortable in his light gray suit that was accentuated with cobalt accessories that brought out the color of his eyes. “Don’t lump me in with you fucks!”

Hinata blushed furiously, turning almost as red as his hair. “Kageyama! Language!” 

Ushijima nervously adjusted the collar of the blazer. Feeling a little self-conscious and a bit uncomfortable from the attention, warmth spread across his cheeks. The suit felt nice, and when he looked in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom, he thought he looked... different. The navy blue suit had been expertly tailored, the seams taut against his broad shoulders. The long sleeves fell just right, showing off the expensive platinum Rolex watch his mother had gifted him for Christmas the year prior. According to Bokuto, the blazer was meant to stay unbuttoned, showing off a crisp white designer dress shirt that was tucked into matching navy pants that were fitted just around the ankles, flattering his thick thighs and lean calves. The dark brown belt matched the polished leather shoes, tying the whole look together. 

“Hold still, I gotta send a pic to Akaashi!” Bokuto remarked, taking a step back and pulling out his smartphone.

“God that’s so gay… oh wait, is he gay for Ushiwaka, too?” Sakusa asked. He wore black suit pants and a dusty blue blazer that complimented his dark eyes. He wore a white dress shirt, the outfit accessorized with a charming black bowtie, and elegant white gloves. 

“What?” Bokuto whipped his head around, shooting a golden glare in the hitter’s direction. “No way! He’s only gay for me. He just wanted to see how it looked so he knew what pocket square to bring with him.”

“Pocket square?” Ushijima asked.

“To bring with him?” Miya inquired.

“He admitted he’s gay for you?” Kuroo added.

Bokuto sighed and slumped into the couch next to Kageyama. “I kind of…” he paused, squeezing his eyes shut and held his breath, struggling to utter the sentence, “asked him to be my date.”

“Oh my gosh, that’s so wonderful Bokuto!!” Hinata exclaimed, running to the back of the couch and wrapping his arms around the owl’s neck, squishing their cheeks together. “I didn’t know we could bring dates!”

Kageyama shot an icy look in his direction. “Why the hell would you need to bring a date?”

Hinata stood up, his expression was thoughtful. “I guess it would be fun to bring Yachi or something. To share this moment with someone special.”

Kageyama growled and stood, snatching another full flute of champagne as he stormed toward the expansive balcony attached to the room.

Hinata looked around, confused. “Did I say something wrong?”

Miya cringed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his dominant hand. “My sweet baby boy, I will go talk to him,” the blond offered, giving him a paternal pat on the shoulder. “You just drink this.” The ginger decoy took the champagne, still lost on what just happened.

“Okay, Akaashi is bringing a white pocket square with him, he says it has navy pinstripes. He just got in the cab!” Bokuto’s face was cheerful as he stared down at his iPhone, thumbs rapidly clicking away at the screen.

“Yeah, then he’ll be _totally_ ready to pick up some babes tonight!” Kuroo thrust one arm in the air as he shotgunned the rest of his champagne. 

“Not quite,” Bokuto said, rising from his spot on the comfy sofa, sliding his phone into his pants pocket. “He needs one more thing.”

“Other than a damn pocket square?” Sakusa jested with a tight smirk.

“Yeah! Other than a damn pocket square!” The owl rolled his eyes and stood in front of his teammate who was looking increasingly annoyed with the passage of time. Bokuto raised his hands and pushed the olive green locks away from Ushijima’s handsome face, his golden-brown eyes widened at the contact. “Hinata, quick! Hair spray!”

The ginger spiker hopped up eagerly, swooped, and grabbed the silver bottle of hair spray that was sitting on the counter - (Bokuto and Kuroo had used it previously to perfect their signature looks.) Arm outstretched as high as he could, he sprayed the product on the spiker’s hair. Bokuto released the man’s hair and smoothed it out, leaving a very dignified, pushed back look.

“Damn, you big sexy, huh?” Bokuto let out a wolf whistle and Hinata clasped his hands together.

“Wow, Ushijima! Are you going to really meet a girl tonight?! How fun!”

“No,” he stated flatly, gently patting at his new hairstyle. Why was it kind of crunchy? Did it really look good?

“The ‘Super Max Volume Hold’ usually makes it a little stiff, but it’s worth it!” Bokuto explained, gesturing to his own masterfully styled hairdo. 

Ushijima glared - it was going to be a long night.

\-----------------

“This is bound to be a good time, what do you think, Tooru?” Hiyori asked as he leaned into the dark leather seats of their limo.

Oikawa sneered and looked away. He didn’t want to be in the car with that bastard anymore, or anywhere near him, really. Oikawa had ended up staying at his apartment most of the week, mainly because he felt like he couldn't leave. 

“Tooru, I asked you a question.” Hiyori narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, snatching at the setter’s wrist, causing him to let out a little yelp of pain. The glass of wine he had been holding hurtled toward the floor and shattered against the carpet, droplets of the white wine splashing on the spectacled model’s Neiman Marcus shoes. This caused Hiyori to yank him closer, his expression turning from darkened to outraged. “Look what you did, Tooru! Is that any way to behave?” His breath was hot against Oikawa’s ear; it sent a cold shiver down his spine. “I should have left you back at the apartment.”

Oikawa winced at the pressure around his arm but knew better than to struggle or pull away. If he did, that would only upset Hiyori further. He didn’t look up, just kept his eyes fixed on the broken glass at his feet. 

He was relieved when the car stopped, announcing their arrival to the hotel. Hiyori had already made all the arrangements and reserved them a suite near the top, informing Oikawa that was where he was to report to by the end of the night. And, per his instructions, he was not to be too intoxicated before coming to the room - he had “plans”, whatever depraved thing that meant. 

The driver opened the door, allowing the two men to exit. Oikawa stayed behind Hiyori as they made the walk up the steps. A crowd of people and paparazzi were lined up outside the hotel. Manic flashes of lights from cameras and praise from fans rose from the mass that was careened behind a dividing tight rope. The duo walked right past them and into the front entrance lobby; Oikawa was glad they could skate past them, large groups like that gave him anxiety, especially when he was constantly being watched by Hiyori.

A member of security met them in the lobby and escorted them back to the ballroom of the hotel. “We’re on the list,” Hyori waved passively as the doorman as they entered the party.

The room was decorated beautifully, looking more like a fancy art gala than an Olympic sponsorship party. Partygoers were decked out in their best suits and cocktail dresses, carrying on while soft music rose from a band toward the back. Servers carried around platters of delicious hors d'oeuvres, making offerings to guests as they passed.

That’s when Oikawa spotted him - he almost didn’t, at first. He looked so different, standing there at the edge of the ballroom, a glass of dark red wine perched delicately in his powerful left hand, the other casually tucked in his pants pocket. His suit was breathtaking, an obvious perfect fit, and hand-tailored. The color was a mature navy that made him look so cultured and distinguished. He stood with the confidence he usually only wore on the court; shoulders back, chest forward, with his long, toned legs shoulder-width apart, his weight casually shifted onto one foot. His hair had been styled back, away from his face, giving a full view of his handsome and masculine features. Even from the distance, Oikawa could see the striking color of his rich, amber eyes.

The setter took a staggering breath, trying to push down the warmth that had taken flight within his ribs; he refused to believe he felt anything close to love, or even lust, or anything at all, for his former rival. But denial was hard to keep at bay when his mouth felt so dry and his feet felt so light.

Oikawa’s attention to the spiker did not go unnoticed; Hiyori eyed the model for a long moment before bringing his gaze across the room, where the tall man stood, surrounded by his teammates. The former swimmer narrowed his eyes and ran his sharp tongue across his bottom lip. 

Things were about to get interesting.

\---------------

“Are you here alone?” Ushijima turned his head to look to his left, where the soft voice had come from. A tall, slender woman stood beside him, dressed in a red, shimmering cocktail dress with a deep, plunging neckline, showing off her obvious curves. Her blond hair was curled around her exposed shoulders, her lipstick the same shade of scarlet as her attire.

The spiker gave her the once over before taking another sip of his wine; a drink he was not completely happy with but was enjoying far more than the beer from the night club. “No,” he replied flatly, facing back out toward the party.

The whole event had been incredibly boring and dull, not that it was really his cup of tea anyway. He didn’t want to come, he didn’t want to dress up, he especially didn’t want to socialize with people like this. 

His teammates were having a great time mingling with other guests, and each other. Bokuto looked overjoyed and just a little smitten as he took Aakashi around, introducing the mild-mannered man to various teammates and recounting stories from their high school ‘glory days’. Kuroo and Miya were sampling different wines over at the bar, chatting up the pretty server. Hinata was excitedly trying to dance to the uptempo music, while a semi-embarrassed and somewhat uncomfortable looking Kageyama tried to shoo him along. Sakusa was nowhere to be seen, but the neat freak was probably taking a hand-washing break to decompress from the overwhelming number of people. 

He returned his eyes to the woman, a smile crossing her ruby lips. She reached out to gently touch the large man on his bicep, the muscles bristling beneath the contact. “Oh, did you bring a date?” Her blue eyes shimmered with just a glint of seduction. 

Ushijima shook his head before letting out another, “no.”

The woman continued to eye him, growing just a bit annoyed at the short answers she was receiving. “Do you have a name, handsome?” she curled her clutches around his arm just a little tighter.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi.” 

“Nice to meet you Ushijima-kun. That’s a lovely name,” she said, a fake smile spreading across her otherwise lovely, modelesque face. “Aren’t you going to ask me for mine?” She was trying her damndest to keep her tone coy and flirtatious. 

Once again, the ace replied with a simple, “no.”

The blond woman quickly let go of Ushijima, where she instead folded her arms across her voluptuous chest. “Wow, you don’t need to be so rude,” she huffed. “It must be true what they say - athletes _are_ all just fucking morons.”

“Now, now, Katia, no need to be so obtuse,” cooed a familiar voice that prompted Ushijima to whip his head so fast it about caused him to pinch a nerve in his neck. “I don’t think a man who graduated summa cum laude from one of Japan’s top universities while double majoring in criminal justice and Japanese history could be considered a, uh, what was it?” Oikawa brought a delicate finger to the point of his chin while raising his hazel gaze to the ceiling, feigning any sort of actual deep thought. “Oh,” he tilted his head back down and glowered, “a ‘fucking moron’.” The disdain oozed from his voice, his words dripping with sheer contempt. 

“Eat a dick, Oikawa,” Katia spat, her angular face held in a sneer. “Mind your business.”

Oikawa let out a laugh that was anything but joyful as he approached his former rival, placing a hand on his broad chest. He could feel the ace’s heart pounding beneath the fabric of his designer shirt. “Oh, honey, I plan to do plenty of the former,” he stated, punctuating the sentence with a heavy wink.

The model turned on her high heel and stomped away, no longer interested in the conversation. She had been bested by Oikawa Tooru; a battle, the former setter surmised, she should have known she would lose from the beginning. 

Oikawa turned back to Ushijima, never once removing his hand. He kept it purposefully placed there, staring at the Olympian’s confused face, which was highlighted with a faint blush. Ahh, how sweet it was to make the usually stoic man show such an attractive expression.

The setter took a long sip of his wine that he held in his left hand, while slowly dragging his right down Ushijima’s long abdomen, gently caressing him through the fabric. His fingers hitched, then casually flicked, over the silver of his belt buckle until Oikawa returned it to his own hip, cocking it to the side as he shifted his weight to one foot. “My, my, Ushiwaka-chan, it seems like someone pulled out all of the stops this evening.”

Ushijima swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Oikawa had also dressed the part, his burgundy suit fitted perfectly to his trim, athletic body. The blazer hugged his svelte frame and his pants were so, so tight on his long, slender legs, complimenting in him every place that made Ushijima sweat just a little. He wore a long, thin black tie and coordinating black accessories, down to his very posh shoes.

“Sorry I had to play the white knight for you instead this evening, Ushiwaka-chan. I just don’t take kindly to stupid bitches who think they can say whatever they please.” Ushijima couldn’t help but notice that even though Oikawa was sporting a near-empty wine glass, he looked healthier and brighter than he had the weekend before. His eyes were clear and attentive, allowing the ace to see just how gorgeous and hazel they were.

“It’s fine,” Ushijima answered finally, squeezing his wine glass a little tighter, forcing himself to govern his thoughts. 

“Are you having fun?” the model asked before downing the rest of the contents of his glass.

“Sure. Are you?”

Oikawa shrugged, turning and taking a wide sweep of the room with his eyes. “I’ve seen worse parties.”

Ushijima just hummed, unsure of what to say next. 

“You look really nice tonight, Ushiwaka-chan.” He gave the compliment out the side of his mouth, speaking a little quieter, a little less energetic than he had been moments ago. His features were soft, his lips curved in a half-smitten smile, but it was genuine and real and tangible. For this brief, fluttering moment, he had returned to the Oikawa that Ushijima had known before; the one he fell in love all that time ago.

He remembered that day, a little over ten years ago at the junior high nationals, the first time he laid eyes on Oikawa Tooru. He was so nimble and poised, playing years beyond where he should have been at his age. He was tall and slender, like a hitter, but once his fingertips graced the ball, it was obvious he was made for his position. 

Ushijima, barely 14 years old at the time, had never given much thought to girls or kissing or anything along those lines. The other boys were beginning to snicker about their female classmate’s changing bodies and sneaking magazines filled with swimsuit models into their locker room, though the ace never paid much attention to them. But once he laid eyes on Oikawa, his milk-white thighs teasing him from underneath a pair of much-too-short athletic shorts, it was obvious as to why: maybe, just maybe, he didn’t like girls. 

“Here, give me your glass,” Oikawa held out his hand, pulling Ushijima from his nostalgic, and semi-dirty, thoughts.

“Okay,” he handed it over, unsure as to why. He was still trying to keep his head on straight and his thoughts clear; the wine was starting to make his head just a bit hazy. 

“Refill,” Oikawa explained with an amorous wink before floating toward the bar. Ushijima blinked slowly, watching the man leave left him with a strange sinking feeling, though he couldn't help but enjoy the view as he walked away. 

“Hmm, it seems like something of mine has taken a shine to you.”

Ushijima glanced out the corner of his eye to see a handsome man, decked out in a dark suit, reminiscent of one James Bond might wear. He was tall, but still several inches shorter than Ushijima. He had brunette hair and amber eyes that were calculating and a cold. The man pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose before flashing a dazzling, clandestine smile at the ace. “Hiyori Tono,” the man said, holding out his hand. “But you may address me as Hiyori-kun.”

Ushijima did not remove his hands from his pockets. “I never asked,” he growled, refusing to shake his hand. From across the ballroom, he could see Oikawa standing in line at the bar, chatting away with a short red-headed girl.

“Huh, of course, you didn’t. My apologies, Ushijima Wakatoshi, the Black Ace of Japan.” The title rolled from his mouth as if he were mentioning the name of a ruthless dictator, exuding pure hostility. Hiyori smoothed the once-extended hand on his pants, trying to brush off the clear insult. “I didn’t come over here to disturb your festivities. I just wanted to warn you that I don’t take kindly to my things being touched.”

“I have touched nothing of yours.” His reply was deep, resonating low in his chest.

“Ah, there seems to be some confusion.” Hiyori raised his pointed index finger in the direction of the bar. “Do you see that sweet thing there, leaned up against the bar top? In the burgundy tux?” 

Ushijima eyed Oikawa, who was propped against the bar now, a brilliant smile shining on his face as he chatted with the server. He was clearly laughing at something, his bright eyes pinched in the corners. 

“Well, that’s my property, you see. That ass belongs to me, and this is your very last warning.” Hiyori removed his hand from the air and set it gently on Ushijima’s shoulder. He leaned in, his mouth just inches from Ushijima’s ear, when he whispered, “it would be in your best interest to keep your paws off that slut.”

“The fact you think he is your property is pretty fucking disturbing,” the Olympian commented, elbowing Hiyori away from him. Red hot rage was beginning to pool in the very pit of his stomach, though his tone would never dictate that to the stranger beside him.

“Hmm, I suppose someone who didn’t own him would see it that way. But every inch of that gorgeous body has been touched, licked,” Hiyori smirked and leaned in closer, “or abused by yours truly.”

There was something in Hiyori’s tone that gave him away; he wasn’t joking. He was blatantly revealing his true colors and his malice intentions toward Oikawa. There was no guesswork there: Hiyori had hurt Oikawa in some capacity. And knowing that was enough. 

Something inside Ushijima snapped like those words had turned on a blinding light in a very dark room. The flashes of Oikawa from the weekend before resonated in his mind: images of his hands held in front of his face in fear, an instinctual reaction to chronic abuse. The way he shivered, eyes were swollen from tears as he trembled, terrified. He just knew Hiyori had to be the reason for that.

Ushijima couldn’t control it anymore; his right hand latched onto the front of Hiyori’s shirt, gripping the Hugo Boss top tightly while his legendary left fist came and connected with the model’s nose, eliciting a pained howl. The crunch that reverbed against his knuckles was so satisfying, it sent a riveting chill down Ushijima’s spine.

So he did it again, the second swing sending blood rushing from the model’s face, rapidly staining his clothes as it poured from his broken nose. His glasses fell to the floor with a staggering ‘clack’ as they bounced and then skittered across the tile.

“Ushijima, what the fuck!” hollered Bokuto from his spot just a few feet away, rushing toward the incident. “Fuck, dude, let him go!” The white-haired spiker had his hands on his teammate, trying to pry his arms away, to stop them from delivering another blow. Surely, no normal human being could sustain a third strike from Ushijima's southpaw.

“Say it again,” Ushijima demanded, the words ice cold. He had drug the shorter man up, holding him by his shirt so his feet lifted a little from the ground, only the tips of his shoes touched the tile. Hiyori was choking, spitting up blood. He winced as stray droplets of blood invaded his left eye. “Say he’s yours again.” The deadpan manner he delivered that line caused Hiyori to tremble, amber eyes widened in terror. 

“Ushijima get off of him!” Kuroo had joined Bokuto in trying to pull the large ace away, but he stayed locked where he was; an unmovable force.

“I will let him go when he answers me.”

A dense crowd had gathered around the scene, one bystander calling for security.

“Ushijima,” Kuroo hissed, his tone almost pleading. “You have to let him the fuck go.”

On that demand, Ushijima released his iron grip, letting the model crash to the floor, coughing and sputtering, his face and clothes bloody. 

“Are you a fucking _psycho_?” Hiyori hissed, trying to use his sleeve to clean his face. It was a useless endeavor; his picture-perfect white teeth were even stained red with blood from the cut inside his mouth.

“Ushijima!” Oikawa yelled, running up from behind. He grabbed the tall man’s hand and pulled hard, trying to direct him away from the crowd. “We have to go!”

For a brief moment, Oikawa’s hazel gaze met the amber gaze of the man on the floor. Oikawa couldn’t get over how much he liked the sight of his abuser huddled against the tiles, covered in blood and trembling. Oh, how the tables had turned.

Ushijima couldn’t resist the setter’s pull; he never could. He let his former rival peel him away, the pair navigating through the thick mass of onlookers. They needed to get out, away from the scene of the crime.

“Where are we going?” the ace asked as they rounded the hallway and snaked through the lobby. But it didn’t matter, not really. Oikawa could lead him to the ends of the earth, and that would be okay. 

Two large security guards spotted them, trying to corner them by the front desk. “This way!” Oikawa directed, breathless, steering them to the side door. They emerged out in the street, the heavy winter air hitting their lungs. The kept running, holding hands, and sprinting into the night. Ushijima couldn’t help but notice how warm Oikawa’s hand was, curled perfectly into his, their fingers intertwined. The setter didn’t seem to notice, or at least mind, that the ace’s knuckles were busted. 

The look of unmitigated joy on Oikawa’s face as they ran shocked Ushijima. He looked completely free; he ran as if he were weightless, unbridled for the first time in his life. Just what had this man left behind when they fled from the party? Ushijima couldn’t help but wonder.

The biting winter wind stung their eyes as they weaved, breaking away from the main road. Finally, Oikawa slowed down, his breathing exasperated, and his heart hammering in his chest. He threw his hands in the air, not bothering to untangle his right from Ushijima’s left and let out one of the most genuine laughs to ever grace the olympian’s hearing. Cars passed by on the street, the neon sign from a late-night ramen shop illuminated Oikawa’s porcelain features.

“Ahh that was so fucking cool, Ushiwaka-chan!” he yelled, finally releasing the ace’s hand, only to throw his arms around his neck instead. “Oh my god, thank you!” 

His breath was hot on the shell of Ushijima’s ear as he pulled him closer. He didn’t want to let go, his large arms encompassing the smaller man completely. He could feel the pounding of his heart, surging blood to every facet of his being; as he held Oikawa, he felt truly alive.

Oikawa pulled his head back only a little, just enough to lift his hazel eyes, half-lidded and dream-like. “Kiss me,” he whispered, the demand causing his lips to tingle with anticipation.

Ushijima didn’t hesitate, dipping his head low to fulfill the request. Their lips met, the sensation was thrilling, but not alarming or rushed. Oikawa’s lips were soft and just a bit cold from the night air, the setter’s hands finding their way to knot into Ushijima’s olive-brown locks along the nape of his neck. Oikawa tasted sweet, of white wine, his mouth bubbling with the hints of citrus and peach. 

Oikawa opened his mouth further, allowing Ushijima to deepen the kiss, tongues sliding past teeth; it was impassioned, without restraint or governance. Ushijima’s hands dug into the model’s narrow hips, pulling him tight against his body, their chests flush to each other. A small moan burned in Oikawa’s throat and hummed into Ushijima’s mouth. 

“Take me somewhere,” Oikawa pleaded, finally breaking their kiss. His eyes searched Ushijima’s face with a sense of urgency and burning; they were glazed with lust and longing.

“Where?” Ushijima asked, voice shaking just a bit. Their breath met the cold air between them in a cloud of smokey intensity, the white vapor their only barrier.

“Anywhere.”

Ushijima latched onto the setter’s hand and dragged him further down the street, searching for a hotel. He could feel his phone vibrating in his pants pocket, pinging wildly with notifications. He knew it was likely his teammates looking for him, but he didn’t care. At this moment, he didn’t care about anything other than Oikawa Tooru. 

It didn’t take long to find a small hotel, nestled into a row of commercial buildings. The neon sign flashed ‘vacancy’, igniting within him the realization that what was happening wasn’t a fantasy. He wasn’t dreaming. Oikawa was still holding onto him, fingers interlaced with his, the setter’s grip never once wavering.

Ushijima checked them in, placing yen on the counter and pushing it toward the tired-looking young woman behind the desk. She slid back a keycard and their eyes met where she gave a knowing wink. She mouthed something to him, and the spiker only nodded.

“Room 27,” Ushijima whispered as they navigated down the long hall, his eyes fixed on the red key card in his hand. It wasn’t a seedy place by any means, but it certainly wasn’t anything like the hotel they had just left behind, not that either man seemed to mind. They were finally heading somewhere together, and that was progress.

Ushijima had barely opened the door, stepped inside, and turned the light on before his lips were met with Oikawa’s once again, hotter and heavier this time, hungrier and relentless. His mouth still tasted so sweet but with a hint of urgency that was incredibly intoxicating. The model grabbed the lapels of Ushijima’s suit, pulling him further into the room. 

They were moving blindly, eyes closed and lips locked, not caring where they landed. Oikawa was the first to pull away, tugging at the navy jacket still gracing the ace’s powerful shoulders. He jerked it away with a flourish, tossing it on the gray carpet. His expression was carnivorous as if he was about to eat Ushijima alive.

Fumbling hands undid buttons and removed belts, desperate to make a connection with bare skin. Their motions were determined, daring, frantic as they stripped each other; clothes shedding and falling to the floor, along with their own inhibitions. Soon they were naked, their intentions for each other laid raw.

Ushijima pressed a hand into the small of Oikawa’s exposed back, lifting him, and then lowering him, onto the bed behind them. Their mouths met again, the heat building in Ushijima’s lower half, the yearning igniting every nerve ending. As if on cue, Oikawa gently raised a pale, naked thigh and pushed it against Ushijima’s growing erection, inciting a staggered gasp.

“Look at me,” the setter demanded, touching Ushijima’s chin, guiding him to raise his eyes. The color of golden honey that met his gaze warmed him; the look was carnal, but still brimming with heartfelt desire and something that seemed almost… gentle.

“You’re beautiful,” Ushijima whispered as he ran the pads of his finger tenderly across the smooth, alabaster skin on Oikawa’s chest. He really was every bit as ethereal and surreal here, pinned below his body, as he had been that night in his bed. Were they really this close? As he traced a finger lightly over his eager flesh, Ushijima couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander: who was the real Oikawa now? Was it this man, who was so earnest and almost restless, expression bright and movements intentional? Or was it the man from the night of the club; stagnant, emotionless, detached, only carrying out actions that brought him closer to his high? 

“Touch me,” Oikawa breathed against Ushijima’s sharp collarbone, guiding his hand to touch his own throbbing member. “Please.”

The ace obliged, wrapping one powerful hand around Oikawa, slowly pumping him down the length of his shaft, causing a stuttered moan to rise from his pink and parted lips. A panted expletive followed as Ushijima ran his thumb across the wet slit, still holding the member firm in his hand, his golden gaze never breaking from the animated features so seductively painted on the model's face. 

“Harder, please,” Oikawa begged, arching his back, pressing a forearm against his eyes, trying to hide the lewd expression he knew he was making. “Please.”

“No,” Ushijima purred, bringing his right hand to cradle his partner’s face, urging him to move his arm so he could see. The touch was so soothing, so comforting, so safe. A tear left Oikawa’s watery hazel eyes, running a smooth line along his cheek until meeting Ushijima’s thumb. He had never felt this way with someone, it was almost terrifying, but it also felt so good; he felt so alive. The olympian brought the tips of his fingers to flutter along the edge of Oikawa’s dark lashes, now wet and glistening. The gesture was so amiable and loving, it made the model’s lip quiver and his breath shudder. Was this what it was like to be made love to?

Ushijima leaned forward, pressing his warm lips flush to his cheek, catching the next tear with the tip of his tongue; the taste was salty and tepid. His dominant hand was still occupied with languid pumps, pleasuring the beautiful man beneath him. 

“Will you fuck me?” Oikawa breathed between heated moans, his body tingling with anticipation. 

Ushijima sat back on his knees, reaching for the nightstand beside the bed, remembering what the hotel clerk had mouthed, _“in the drawer_ ”, before adding a knowing wink. He removed a clear bottle and a chain of golden condoms. He looked down at Oikawa who was trembling, eyes half-lidded, tongue panting. His porcelain skin was reddened, flushed with scarlet patches where he was warm with impatience and neediness. 

Ushijima poured some of the gel on a thick finger, being generous with the amount. “Is this what you want?” Ushijima asked. His intention was to secure consent, though his tone hinted at the provocative, almost as if he were trying to rouse the model further. 

“Please,” he affirmed, his voice hoarse. 

Taking a deep breath, he casually spread apart the long, pale legs and he situated himself just between them. The view was so gorgeous, so erotic, it caused Ushijima to let out a low growl of dominance: Oikawa was finally going to be his. 

Ushijima pressed his lubricated finger against the waiting entrance, teasing its warmth with small, deliberate circles. Oikawa gasped when Ushijima finally broke the threshold, entering into him. He moaned as he was explored; the long, capable finger reaching deep within him. After a minute of slow, concentrated pumps, Ushijima added another, bending them around the tightness that threatened to drive him absolutely wild. He scissored them slowly, causing Oikawa to twitch and clasp his own hand to stifle yet another obscene noise. 

“I want to hear you,” Ushijima stated firmly, using his free hand to push Oikawa’s away. In the same gentle, loving motion as before, he pressed his thumb against his pink bottom lip, gathering the drops of saliva that had gathered there. “Let me hear you.” On that command, he added one more finger. The setter immediately granted his wish as he let out a salacious cry that poured from the very pit of his loins. 

After a few moments of slow, focused thrusting, Ushijima gently removed his fingers, eliciting a low whimper from the beautiful brunette. He reached over for the gold packaging, tearing one from the chain and ripping it open with his teeth in a swift and intentional motion: he was ready.

“Let me,” Oikawa pleaded, propping himself up on his elbow. “I want to do it for you.” He took the package from Ushijima and removed the clear contraceptive before taking the ace in his hands, rolling it gently down the shaft all the way to base. He was so large, both his length and his girth impressive. Oikawa swallowed heavily at the idea of the thickness entering him.

Being touched for the first time since they began caused Ushijima to moan, the sheer hungriness of the noise caused Oikawa’s heart to flutter. The setter added more gel while he pumped his partner, trying to return the favor. “I want you, Wakatoshi.”

Hearing his first name from such seductive and parted lips was all he needed. He positioned himself outside of Oikawa before slowly pressing forward, watching with wanton eyes as he disappeared inside the brunette. Oikawa’s sounds were rampant now, so racy and loud. Ushijima splayed his hands across his long thighs, trying to pull him closer. 

“Are you okay?” Ushijima asked as he looked down at the sight beneath him. Oikawa took a shuttering breath as the ace tucked a strand of matted chocolate hair behind his flushed ear, letting his thumb graze the shell.

Oikawa only nodded, too afraid of what sound may rise if he tried to speak. His eyes were glassy from unshed tears, but he had never felt better in all of his life. He had never felt so validated. He didn’t know that sex could be pure, and gentle, and sweet. It didn’t need to be a power struggle, or animalistic. It could just simply… be. 

Ushijima began moving, slow and unhurried at first, the two just resonating in the fact they were finally connected in a way that each secretly desired for so long. But as the lust pooled in his stomach, the ace could no longer hold back, his thrusts picking up pace, though never once did his gentle touch falter. Never once did Oikawa feel like they were running through the motions, or that he didn’t matter, or like this was meaningless or irrelevant.

Their bodies were one, mixing their voices and their sweat, unsure of where one ended and where the other began. They were whole, complete, relentless. They acted like lovers, gracing each other with impassioned kisses, exploring touches, and long, unfaltering gazes. When they found their rhythm, it was euphoric, but almost grounding all at the same time. 

“Ushijima, I-I-,” Oikawa stuttered, burying his nails into the robust, dense muscles of the ace’s shoulder blade. “I’m going to--”

“Me too,” Ushijima huffed, ducking his head into Oikawa’s collar bone, scraping his teeth along the balmy skin of his neck. 

Oikawa found release first, throwing his head back against the pillow, an exasperated whine punctuating his climax, the white-hot lightning leaving his body as his back arched. He became so sensitive, feeling Ushijima even more intensely as he rode out his own orgasm. He leaned heavily over the model, a low roar of unadulterated pleasure rising from his chest.

After a few moments of stillness, the room only filled with their panting breaths as both men tried to calm down, steady their minds from what just happened. Ushijima carefully removed himself, Oikawa hummed as he slowly became emptied in a place that felt just so full moments ago. The ace did not fall into the bed, instead rose, making his way into the bathroom. Oikawa laid still, staring up at the ceiling and listened closely as the faucet water was turned on, then off. 

The olympian emerged, a towel in hand. He approached Oikawa silently as he reached down to wipe away the semen on his taut abs, the wet washcloth warm and soothing.

“Ushijima?” Oikawa whispered, the words almost caught in his dry throat. “Will you stay here tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh okay, I spent a *lot* of time on this chapter, and I really, really hope you like it. We needed something good to happen for our boys. Now, this is nowhere near the end of our story, and I told y'all blips of sunshine would come and I hope I delivered. TBH, this is my first time writing smut and I wasn't sure how it was turning out. I wanted them to 'make love' the first time they had sex, not just bang. I wanted Oikawa to know the difference. To me, Ushijima has always been something of a gentle giant: a brute, resilient man's man when needed, but also someone who was gentle and loving when he was in a relationship. Anyway, please leave me a comment and let me know how you thought my smut was or if I needed to improve something. There will be plenty more from here on out, so any feedback would be fantastic.
> 
> Oh, and I hope you don't mind all the descriptions of their outfits. I have a thing for well-dressed dudes. Can you tell by my description I am basically in love with Ushijima? Ha! Also sorry, I have a thing of Oikawa's thighs. And so does Ushijima. For some reason. It's a mystery.
> 
> Oh, and I made up Ushijima's nickname. I thought it kinda sounded bad ass.
> 
> As always, thanks for the comments and kudos and of course, just for reading!! It means so much to me.
> 
> Also, fuck Hyori and I hope his nose stays broke.
> 
> Next time: consequences


	6. Daybreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I wrote 80% of this chapter a little wine drunk at home right now. I haven't beta'd it yet, so I apologize for typos or what have you. I started back to work at both of my jobs this week (I am a college academic advisor by weekday and a stylist at a fashion boutique by weekend day... hardcore fujoshi by night) and have been a little bit busy. I am trying to find some balance in it all but I'm glad to have this fic (and you amazing readers!) to turn to when it gets stressful. I hope you enjoy it!

It was just before sunrise; Ushijima knew that well without even having to drag his gaze to the digital alarm clock on the nightstand, glowing eerie and red, casting a low, electronic haze. 

Ushijima had found himself, many restless nights, lying awake, waiting for the sun to come up, to start the day, to bring an end to the wretched darkness. This morning, however, he secretly prayed that the purple and blue hues would never touch the sky, never reach the four-paneled window pane at the opposite end of their hotel room. Normally, he hated the winter and the long, blustery nights it brought with it, but now he was grateful because the light of day would be delayed just a little while longer, so he could hold Oikawa just for a little while more.

It was cold in the room, neither man remembering to turn the heater on before collapsing naked into soiled, sweaty sheets after their third round, bodies spent and breath completely evaporated from their lungs. However, this slip of the mind was what caused the pale man in his arms to burrow so deeply into Ushijima’s defined chest, seeking every ounce of his warmth. The ace pulled the duvet tighter around him, attempting to somehow coax him even closer, the hollow fear gnawing in the pit of his stomach that should he loosen his grip, Oikawa would dissipate into thin air, like iridescent fog, once the sun breached the horizon.

The model was snoozing gently in the crook of his arm, Ushijima never once ceasing to trace slow, lazy circles on his shoulders with his left hand. His skin was so smooth and milk-white, peppered with faded freckles and just a few tiny, charming angel kisses. With his right, he brushed soft locks of hair up and away from his face, giving Ushijima just a glimpse of his sleeping features. He looked so peaceful here compared to how he usually appeared, all sarcastic wit and guarded body language.

Ushijima didn’t know what waited for him in a few hours. He was afraid to check his phone, still stuck in his pants pocket somewhere on the floor. He was terrified of what consequences awaited his actions. Would he be arrested? Suspended from the team? Would his lifetime of dedication to his sport mean nothing in just a few short hours?

While these thoughts burned a searing hole somewhere inside his stomach, he knew in his heart that he wouldn’t change what happened tonight. He would go back and do it over and over again, so long as it yielded the same result. He would keep doing whatever it took to have Oikawa here in his arms, resting and peaceful, and above all else, safe. 

“Hiyori?” It came out as a throaty gasp, the setter latching onto him as he stirred violently awake, almost as if he had been having a nightmare. The olympian felt sharp nails dig into his bicep and hip as Oikawa jerked back.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima remarked, his words caught somewhere between surprise and concern as the scratches stung his exposed skin. “Oikawa, it’s me.”

Ushijima couldn’t see the setter’s face that well, the room still bathed in darkness. But he could hear his panicked breathing, feel the way he writhed while still tangled around each other. The ace brought his hand up to gingerly touch the gentle bend of his shoulder before pulling him back down, into an embrace. 

“Shh, Tooru, it’s me,” Ushijima whispered into his thick, chestnut-colored hair, his hand clasped to the back of his clammy neck. He kept his tone soothing and low, ignoring the pain the setter was unintentionally inciting. “You’re safe.”

“U-Ushijima?” Oikawa breathed, his voice catching in his throat, distorted by the tears he was fighting. He blinked heavily, trying to fight the confusion in his eyes.

“Yes,” the ace said, pressing his pale chest into his own, strong arms capturing him. Ushijima leaned down, placing a chaste, comforting kiss in the corner of Oikawa’s eye, the smooth skin already wet with brimming tears.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Oikawa cried, taking a staggered and pained breath, releasing his death grip on Ushijima.. “I… I thought…” he let his voice trail off, afraid to say the terrible thoughts that had pooled in the front his mind.

“Don’t apologize,” Ushijima stated as Oikawa buried his face under the ace’s chin, tears still rolling down his high cheekbones. 

“Alright,” Oikawa whispered, almost choking on the words. He let out a few more heavy sobs before finally taking a calm breath. The ace never once stopped rubbing his tensed shoulders, trying to soothe him. It was then Oikawa knew that while his former rival was a man of few words, he showed affection through small gestures and physical connection. 

“Who is he?” Ushijima asked. He felt Oikawa stiffen beneath him. 

“Just a piece of shit.” Oikawa let out a low breath, pushing all the heat from his lungs. He was so tired of crying because of Hyori. 

“I would have killed him, had I hit him again.”

The model nodded, pushing his cheek further into the ace’s shouder. “I know.” 

“If he touches you again, I will.” The way Ushijima delivered those words, he knew there was nothing but truth in the statement. 

“He’s not worth it,” Oikawa explained as he squeezed the hitter’s hip, running his thumb over the defined muscles just beneath his touch. “And neither am I.”

Ushijima hummed in disapproval, the warm vibration of his chest resonated through Oikawa, buzzing against his flesh. Oikawa couldn’t help but think these things about himself. He knew he would give anything to trade places with Ushijima, to be on a professional team, well on his way to the world stage. But never would he sabotage that, not even for his former rival, and for somebody whom maybe he... 

“What did he do to you?” Ushijima asked, his breath hot against the crown of his head, snapping Oikawa from his wandering thoughts. 

Oikawa sighed. “That requires a long answer and I’m entirely too sober to tell you,” he admitted.

“I will listen.”

A joyless chuckle left his parted lips. “Yeah, I know, and that’s part of why I’m not ready.”

“I hit him because he said you were his property.” Ushijima clenched his teeth and balled his left fist, remembering the villainous, and almost proud, look on his face as he said it. Ushijima wished he had hit him just a little harder.

“Jealous?” Oikawa teased, trying to mask his emotions with sarcasm. He felt several things with that admission: pure resentment for Hoyri, and unbridled admiration for Ushijima. The latter feeling made his heart flutter and his stomach clench. 

“No. I was angry someone could so casually say that about another human being, but especially about you.”

Oikawa’s heart skipped a beat. “Ahh, well, I guess when you’re as pathetic as I am, it wasn’t a stretch for him to say such a thing.”

“You were once quite prideful, Oikawa.” Ushijima stilled the hand that was on the setter’s back. Oikawa couldn’t see well in the dark, but Ushijima wasn’t looking at him anymore, his eyes fixed instead on the window opposite the bed. “So prideful that you let that keep you from joining me at Shiratorizowa.” 

“Well, you know what they say, Ushiawaka-chan,” Oikawa smirked, pulling away from the ace. “Pride comes before the fall.” He knew why Ushijima was pointing that out to him: he wanted him to realize how much he had changed. How something like this would have never happened before because Oikawa’s stubborn pride would have never let it. 

“Do you love him?”

A stuttering laugh left his lips, laced with contempt. “Oh god, love? I didn’t even _like_ him. He’s literal human garbage.” Oikawa had once wondered if he loved Hyori, at least in part. He was no Iwa-chan, that was for sure, but was it love? Or something like it? Did he just love the attention and the physical connection and that someone finally just wanted him in return? He knew he had to have felt _something_ to have stuck around this long, but he couldn’t narrow down what it could have been.

“He hurt you.” That one wasn’t a question.

“I brought it on myself.”

“No.”

Oikawa sighed and sat up, tucking his knees under his pointed chin. “I let him hit me and abuse me because he had something I needed to keep myself sane. That’s all. It’s my fault. I could have left, but chose not to. Fuck, even when we ‘broke up’, if that’s what you could even fucking call it, I still came crawling back to him.”

Ushijima trailed his finger down the gentle curve of Oikawa’s spine, feeling each bump of his vertebrae. “Why?” The setter sobbed at the question; Ushijima could feel the bouncing breath he took just under the calloused pads of his fingers. 

“Because I’m a junkie, Wakatoshi. I like getting high and not feeling anything.” His voice strained, a low whine scratching his throat. “If I was high enough, it didn’t hurt. I could disconnect from everything, including the abuse. I could handle whatever he threw at me because I was too fucking numb to feel it.” He hadn’t admitted that aloud before, not to anyone, not even himself. "And maybe in some fucked up sort of way, it felt a little like love. Even if it was tainted and warped, it was still something."

Ushijima didn’t say anything as he splayed his large left hand back up the setter’s spine, feeling every divet in his shoulder blade, before careening his arm around to pull Oikawa back into him. He buried his nose into the soft, chocolate locks near his temple. He was never a man of many words, but now, he was even more lost on what to say than normal. He couldn’t relate to how he was feeling, but he knew that Oikawa didn’t deserve any of it. He deserved to be loved and cherished and held, just like he was right now. 

“You shouldn’t get too close to me, Ushijima.” Oikawa’s warning resonated in the air, hanging on the edge of his pink and parted lips. “I will only hurt you.” 

The sweet, warm kiss that pressed to his temple was not the reply he was expecting, causing tears to burn as they brimmed in his hazel eyes yet again. “You can try,” the ace whispered, “but I will still be here.”

“But I’m already hurting you! Or are you that fucking stupid that you haven’t realized that?!” Oikawa shot up, untangling himself from the olympian, throwing a stinging elbow into his ribs. His tone was angry, sputtering. “Jesus, you’re probably going to be fucking suspended today, Wakatoshi! Didn’t you think of that?!” Oikawa pulled completely away, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and tossing the blanket away from his naked figure. He gripped the edge of the mattress, the pressure in his fingers already starting to turn them white. “You could have just thrown away everything for nothing!”

“Not nothing.”

“I am _nothing_!” Oikawa twisted around, face beat red and nostrils flaring, glassy eyes glazed with pain and unshed tears. “Why did you do that?!”

The uncertainty of the situation had kept him awake all night. Ushijima wasn’t sure if he even slept at all. He was relatively used to his anxiety, the almost-daily gnawing thoughts berating the very back of his skull, whispering to him that he wasn’t good enough, that he would let his team down, that he was unfit to lead, that he was a disappointment to everyone around him. He had become accustomed to these thoughts, and the restless nights both. But this was different. This was very real. He would have very real consequences to face soon.

“I will figure it out,” Ushijima replied, though Oikawa caught the tinge of apprehension that lingered in those words, the ace’s normally confident voice faltering for the first time since the conversation started. Oikawa couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t answer his question.

The model pressed his palms into his eyes, inducing colorful static to fill his vision. “No,” he whispered, trying to focus on that kaleidoscope of shapes dancing behind his eyelids. “I will.”

Ushijima could see the fateful violet and indigo colors of the winter sunrise stretching across the sky, breaking just through the window beyond Oikawa, shaping him in a dark silhouette. 

A new day was dawning. 

\---------------------

“Holy fuck, where is he?!” Bokuto asked, practically pulling out his dual-toned hair as he paced the hardwood floor of their hotel room. He was staring at his call log in phone with wide eyes, before pressing the green button again.

Kuroo let out a dejected sigh. “Tanaka-san is going to be so pissed.”

“Ushijima just made her job a lot harder,” Miya agreed, loosening the tie around his neck as he fell heavily against the wall. 

“Was that… _Oikawa_?” Hinata asked, scrunching his eyebrows together as he recalled the events from a few hours ago. 

“Sure looked like it,” Bokuto nodded, hanging up his phone once again when he reached Ushijima’s voicemail.

“Who the fuck was that other guy?” It was Kageyama’s turn to speak. He had a half-empty glass of whiskey in one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“Some model,” Kuroo explained with a casual shrug. “Though his nose is probably so fucked up now, I’d be surprised if he ever modeled again.” 

“Has anyone ever seen Ushijima lose his shit like that before?” Sakusa asked, glancing around at his teammates, who all gave him shaking heads in response. No one had ever seen their captain act like that. He was the national captain for a reason, after all, usually so composed and pulled together.

Bokuto jammed his finger into the redial button knowing full well it would yield the same exact ending.

“Speaking of her, has anyone _called_ Tanaka-san yet?” Kuroo quizzed. 

Hinata shook his head and raised his hand. “No, but I’d be happy to call her! I miss Kiyoko!”

“You realize this is a PR nightmare for her, right? She’s not going to be very happy that we're calling.” Miya was straight to the point. 

“Good thing she’s a damn good publicist,” Kagayema acknowledged with a shrug. “She’s been managing us for close to a decade, not to mention all the managing she has to do with her own husband.”

A collective groan rose from the teammates (apart from Hinata) as they thought of Tanaka Ryu and all the trouble he brought with him. However, Hinata would always admire his very cool, somewhat aggressive sempai. 

“Call her and I’ll keep trying Ushijima,” Bokuto growled as he tapped away on his phone.

“Does anyone have Oikawa’s number?” Miya asked. “If they’re together, and Ushijima isn’t answering, maybe Oikawa might answer.”

“Hmm, I don’t have Oikawa’s but I still have Iwaizumi’s!” Hinata exclaimed, holding up his phone.

“Fuck, no!” It was Kuroo’s voice, almost angry, that caught the room by surprise. “No one calls Iwaizumi, especially not about Oikawa.”

Kagayema raised a curious eyebrow but didn’t push. He glanced over at Hinata, who looked a little shocked that he had just been yelled at. 

“Sorry I just snapped,” Kuroo explained with a heavy sigh. “It’s not my business to tell, but just… trust me.”

At that moment, a heavy knock fell upon the hotel door. Miya, who was standing the closest to it, took the few steps to the threshold. He peered through the peephole before spinning his head around, a grimace on his handsome features. “Holy shit, it’s Tanaka-san and she looks next-level _pissed_.”

“Open the door for her!” Bokuto hollered, still messing with his phone.

Miya swallowed heavily before opening it. The dark-haired woman breezed in, a look of utter contempt plastered on her delicate face. Even at 2 a.m., she was dressed in a sleek pantsuit and jet black heels. She commanded the attention of every member of the team as she centered herself in the middle of the room. She heavily cleared her throat before speaking in a cold, calculated tone that sent chills down the men’s spines. “Would anyone care to explain to me where Ushijima is?” 

A moment of deathly silence followed before Hinata squeaked, “umm, we don’t know.” He took in a sharp breath and buried himself under Kagayema’s arm, inciting a deep blush on the tall boy’s cheeks. 

Kiyoko pushed her dark-rimmed glasses up her narrow nose. “Okay, next question: what exactly happened?”

“Ushiwaka just lit some dude the fuck up,” Miya explained, bringing his fist against his hand as if the publicist actually needed a demonstration.

“Why?” she quizzed, narrowing her dark, steel-toned eyes.

“Beats me.” Miya gave a shrug, smoothing his hand through his hair.

“It would appear this has something with Oikawa Tooru,” Kuroo added.

“As in the former volleyball player and model?” Kiyoka asked, cocking a manicured eyebrow.

“Oikawa is a model?” Hinata asked, peering sheepishly from behind his teammate’s shoulder.

“I did see him in a watch ad not too long ago. And some Ralph Lauren shots,” Sakusa piped up from his perch at the tall chairs by the patio. His black mask was casually pulled down around his neck while he sipped on a rich, red wine. 

“So if the guy Ushijima punched was a model, and Oikawa is a model…” Bokuto’s wheels were spinning, finally lowering his phone for the first time in several hours. “They probably know each other.”

“Oikawa and the model dude?” Kuroo clarified.

“Well yeah, duh. I mean, you saw the look on Oikawa’s face as he took Ushiwaka’s hand and bolted - like it was the best day of his life.”

“So why would he deck the model dude?” Miya asked.

“Lover’s quarrel.” Sakusa gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “What else?”

Kuroo and Bokuto spat at the revelation, each pair of golden eyes wide at the idea. “Our captain isn’t gay though,” Kuroo countered with a casual wave of his hand.

“First of all, do you know that for sure?” Sakusa inquired, swirling the deep maroon liquid around in his glass. Before Kuroo could offer an explanation, the hitter added, “And secondly, have you seen Oikawa? I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m not gay, but I _am_ pretty sure I’d let Oikawa wreck my life.”

Kuroo and Bokuto’s mouths hung open. Miya laughed. Kageyama smirked and Hinata looked stunned.

“Fuck he’s right,” Kiyoko whispered, pushing her hands into her temples. “This just got a whole lot more complicated.”

\-----------------------

It was sleepy mornings like this that Daichi lived for; Suga curled up on his chest, silver hair falling around his pale neck, even breath rising and falling in his chest, the setter's mind far away, wrapped in a restful sleep. 

The last ten years together weren’t always perfect, or easy, but it was always worth it as long as Suga was around. Both of their jobs were extremely stressful and called for hectic schedules, oftentimes forcing both men to take baggage home with them at the end of the day. Earlier in the year, Suga had fostered a child, a baby that had been abandoned and left at the hospital where Suga worked as a nurse in the labor and delivery clinic. While he and Daichi couldn’t adopt the baby together, and the paperwork wasn’t officially done due to the complicated adoption process, their daughter colored their world. 

Ever since little Nanami arrived in their life six months ago, things had become even more perfect than before, but also, more terrifying. Their schedules were even more packed and busy, not to mention the fear of someone from social services showing up at their door to say that they couldn’t keep their sweet daughter due to them being a same-sex couple. Daichi assured Suga many nights when he cried after a long shift.

“Those people don’t understand, Dai,” he would insist, soft brown eyes heavy with tears, “they just don’t care about their babies and they won’t even hold them when they’re sick and _ugh_ , I just don’t want anyone to take Nanami away from us!” He would sob and stutter until he was finally calmed down, wrapped in Dai’s strong, capable arms, his sweet lips pressed to his temple, whispering reassuring words to his fair-haired partner. 

A similar episode had happened last night, Suga coming home from work, purple scrubs hanging of his pale frame, his face exhausted, the bags under his eyes color-coordinated with the violet color of his uniform. “People are so terrible, Dai!” he cried, falling into the larger man’s chest.

As a homicide detective, Daichi needed no reminder of how awful people were.

“What happened?” he cooed, patting Suga on his petite shoulder. From behind them, their baby giggled, clearly enamored by the cereal on the tray of her high chair. 

Suga lifted his eyes and sobbed harder, a smile of relief fighting his tears at the sight of the sweet baby, giggling happily at her food. “Stay with me forever?” Suga asked, looking up at Daichi once more. Daichi didn't pry about his day - whatever Suga was facing felt like it was behind him once he reached home. 

“Of course, babe,” he replied, pushing a silver strand of hair behind his ear. “ _Forever_.” He emphasized that word with a kiss on his eager, waiting lips.

It had taken Suga a while to come to bed that evening; he insisted on sitting in the nursery with Nanami, continuing to sing to her long after she had drifted to sleep. Suga was hard to peel away at times like this, so insistent that he needed just ‘five more minutes’ to be in her presence. Normally, he would busy himself with folding and refolding all of the precious little outfits in her closest or cleaning something that was quite obviously already clean. But last night, he just sat in the oversized rocker next to her crib, softly singing song after song until his voice had faded away.

Daichi had listened to it all over the baby monitor from their bedroom, the one he had assured Suga that he would turn off so the detective could get some rest. But how could he sleep when something was clearly upsetting the love of his life?

It was close to 1 a.m. by the time Daichi rose from their bed and made it to the nursery to find Suga asleep, face perched in his hand, leaning heavily against the arm of the rocker. Daichi, dressed only in a pair of comfy sleep shorts and every bit of rippling muscle as he had been in college, scooped Suga up, slipping one arm under the bend of his knees and the other behind his sleek shoulders, and easily carried him back to their bed.

Daichi was restless most of the night, still clinging to Suga like his life depended on him (because in reality, it did.) He didn’t sleep well but he was fine with that as long as his partner had. He would be perfectly content if nothing ever interrupted their peaceful morning entangled around each other.

And as if the universe had heard Daichi, the violent vibration of his phone startled him, abruptly pulling him from his thoughts. It was barely 5 a.m. Who was calling him? Daichi swallowed heavy in his throat - it was probably the precinct calling him to a crime scene. He released a very heavy sigh and rolled a little to his side, trying his damndest not to wake Suga.

“Dai?” asked a sleepy voice, so warm and earnest even first thing in the morning, like honey in hot tea. 

“Shit, sorry babe, I was just getting my phone.” Daichi didn’t reach it in time, but it only took a moment before the caller rang again; this time, it was from Suga’s side of the bed.

“My phone now?” the nurse asked, scrunching his face in confusion. He pulled himself away from his partner, much to Daichi’s displeasure. Suga took in a sharp breath when he saw the name on the screen. 

“Who is it?”

“Ushijima?” Suga asked as he answered the phone.

Daichi recognized the gravelly tone, though he couldn’t make out the words. Why on earth was Ushijima Wakatoshi calling them at 5 a.m. on a Sunday?

“Yeah, Daichi is here, hang on,” Suga stuck his iPhone in the detective direction, a confused look still on his face. “It’s Wakatoshi. He’s asking for you.”

Daichi took the device from Suga and pressed it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Sawamura-san, it’s Ushijima.”

“Good morning,” Daichi grunted, sitting up in bed. Suga rolled over, propping himself up one elbow, eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on Daichi's confused face.

“I am sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I am afraid I have a favor to ask.”

“Okay…” That request seemed out of character. He flitted his dark eyes to Suga’s soft brown ones.

“Will you see if there is a warrant for my arrest?”

Daichi almost choked on his own surprise. “A w-what?” he sputtered, the volume of his voice causing Suga to shoot him a sharp glare. If he wasn’t careful, he would wake up the baby and _really_ be in for a world of hurt.

“A warrant... For my arrest. I committed assault and battery last night at one of our sponsorship dinners. I am not certain if this person filed a police report or is planning on pressing charges, but I thought I would check and see if you could look into it for me. I am hoping to head home soon, and I am just wondering if I am going to get arrested once I get there.” Ushijima was so matter-of-fact, it was almost off-putting.

“Who did you assault?” Daichi asked, almost afraid of the answer. What kind of monster could this person have been to incite such violence from such a normally level-headed human being?

“Someone who hurt Oikawa.” 

Daichi pressed the back of his hand to his eyes as understanding washed over him. “Yeah, I’ll call my buddy down at the precinct once we hang up and let you know.”

“Thank you, Sawamaura.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Daichi waved his hand as if Ushijima could actually see it. “Just look out for yourself. Where is Oikawa now?”

“He is in the shower. We are at a hotel near downtown, toward the industrial district.”

“Is he… doing better?” Daichi stole another glance from Suga, who’s porcelain features were painted with worry.

“I… think so.” The deep voice on the other end of the line faltered a bit causing a hitch in Daichi’s breath.

“Just keep taking care of him. I will be in touch here very soon.”

“Thank you.” 

“You bet, buddy,” Daichi commented before the call disconnected. He set the phone down on the comforter in front of them.

“Is everything okay?” Suga asked, placing a gentle, concerned hand on the detective’s forearm.

Daichi turned to Suga and ran a powerful hand through his own short, dark hair. “That was one of the strangest phone calls I have ever gotten.”

\---------------------------

“Oikawa, are you ready to go?” Ushijima asked as he pulled his wrinkled suit pants up over his broad hips.

“Yeah,” Oikawa whispered dejectedly as he did the same. 

“You didn’t dry your hair,” Ushijima commented, observing the soaking wet chocolate locks that stuck to his head. He looked so much younger and somehow more vulnerable like that, without his hair perfectly coifed and styled.

“It’s fine.”

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” the setter insisted along with a hazel glare. “We’re just getting in a cab anyway.”

Ushijima watched as Oikawa finished dressing. They hadn’t come with luggage, so it was a quick sweep of the hotel room to make sure they had cleaned up after themselves and then they exited, making their way silently to the lobby. Ushijima checked them out while Oikawa stepped outside.

After turning in their keycard and making sure the bill was squared away, the ace joined Oikawa at the front of the building. The dawn light was a little higher in the sky, but since it was a Sunday, traffic, and movement were still scarce. Ushijima was surprised to see a cigarette dangling from Oikawa’s pink lips as he took a deep inhale, and then let the smoke fill the space in front of him.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” was all the olympian managed to say as he leaned on the brick building next to Oikawa.

Oikawa didn’t turn and look at him, instead, he kept his gazed fixed on a street lamp in front of them, the orange glow waning with the coming dawn. “One of my many vices,” he explained out the side of his mouth.

“It’s bad for you,” Ushijima said dully, realizing he didn’t have much else to add.

The former setter just shrugged his petite shoulders. Even though his maroon suit jacket was wrinkled from spending the night on the floor, it still looked so perfect on him, at least in Ushijima’s eyes. “I’ve done a lot worse.”

The spiker hummed, turning his gaze back to the street. The taxi should be arriving soon, he had called the cab company from the hotel lobby. “Are you okay with coming back to my place?” 

Oikawa took the cigarette out, cradling it between two long, nimble fingers. “I don’t care.” Ushijima noticed that his hands were shaking a bit as he spoke. From the cold? From something else? The ace wasn't certain. 

“You don’t have to be nice to me, Wakatoshi,” Oikawa explained behind another long drag of the cigarette. “Just because we fucked doesn’t mean it has to mean something. You’re not my first and I’m not yours.”

Ushijima crossed his arms over his broad chest and closed his eyes, thinking on what Oikawa had just said. Did it really mean nothing to him?

“Oh dear god, tell me I’m not your first?!” Oikawa tossed the cigarette on the concrete and snubbed in out with the toe of his black dress shoe. He cocked his head and looked at Ushijima, eyes wide the concern. “Because there is no way you fuck like that as a virgin.”

“You weren’t my first,” Ushijima growled, staring down at his shoes. 

The model let out a little laugh, the sing-song nature of it lifting into the air. “Well thank Christ for that. Virgins always catch feelings.” He waved a hand in front of his face as if he were disgusted at that fact.

“Cab is here,” Ushijima stated flatly as a yellow car turned the corner. As it approached the curb and stopped, the spiker opened the door, allowing Oikawa to slide into the seat before he crawled in after.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked, and Ushijima gave him the address.

They hadn’t been in the car just a few minutes when Ushijima’s phone rang, vibrating loudly in his coat pocket. He held up the device and was relieved to see ‘Sawamura Daichi’ flash across the screen. 

“Hello?” he asked in a gruff voice, the anxiety rising in his chest. Oikawa had his head resting on Ushijima’s shoulder and he raised his eyes, curious to see who was calling.

“Hey, Ushijima. I just got off the phone with the station.” Daichi sounded tired and just a bit concerned. “It looks like, at this moment, no one has pressed charges against you. There isn’t even a police report from the incident or anything, at least not from the address of the hotel. Whoever you decked doesn’t appear to be filing any sort of charges, at least not at the moment. You’re not exactly in the clear, but I doubt any of my coworkers are on standby at your apartment door right now.”

“Thank you, Sawamura-san,” Ushijima offered, his chest feeling a little less tight.

“You’re welcome. Like I said, not out of the clear just yet, so I would still keep my guard up.”

“I will.”

“Let me know if you need anything, Ushijima.”

“Me too!” The spiker smiled a little when he heard Suga’s soft voice come over the phone. With that, he ended the call and turned back to Oikawa.

“Daichi?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He said that Hiyori hasn’t filed charges against me yet, nor did anyone fill out a police report from the hotel.”

Oikawa sat up and pulled his head away from the firm, warm shoulder it had been resting on. “What?”

Ushijima shook his head. He didn’t understand it, either. Surely, Hiyori would be on a warpath to sabotage the man who assaulted him, then fled into the night with his ‘property’. 

Oikawa let out a joyless laugh and pushed his half-dry hair into the headrest. “Well, that confirms that,” he commented, folding his arms across his chest.

“Hmm?” 

“This motherfucker came to play hardball.” Ushijima did not understand, but before he could ask for clarification, Oikawa had already opened his mouth again. “It’s simple. He’s not pressing charges because he wants leverage… blackmail, something he can hold over our heads.” Oikawa squeezed his eyes harder, unwilling to shed another tear for this situation. “What a petty piece of shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I got a little carried away with the DaiSuga - sue me. I love those two with my whole heart and I wanted them to have some time in this story as well. Also, I love Kiyoko and Tanaka as a couple and I wanted her to be a badass sports publicist so she is one. 
> 
> I know not a lot happened in this chapter, and I apologize for that, but I wanted it to help with world-building as well as suspense building. I promise things will pick up the pace a little more from here, this chapter was definitely an experiment in dynamics. I hope you like it anyway, though!
> 
> As always, thank you for all of your kind thoughts and kudos! It means a lot to me. I am hoping to update this fic at least once a week as I find work/life balance once again. I don't have a guaranteed day of the week, but once a week (at least). Thanks for reading!!


	7. Delicate Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings posted below but are also ***spoilers***
> 
> TW:  
> \- Prescription drug abuse  
> \- smut

The rest of the taxi ride to Ushijima’s apartment was quiet, the low hum of the tires on the road the only noise they could hear between them. The sun was creeping higher in the sky, but it was still relatively early, the streets quiet and void of much traffic or commotion. Ushijima had slipped his hand around Oikawa’s at some point and the model didn’t pull away, much to the ace’s surprise, given the comment he had made while he smoked. 

They arrived at their destination and Ushijima paid the driver, the duo stepping out onto the curb. A cold wind had kicked up, causing Oikawa to shiver. Ushijima placed a hand on the small of his back. “Let’s go inside,” he commented, directing the setter toward the door.

The elevator ride to Ushijima’s floor went much the same as the drive: quiet and reserved, both men lost in their own thoughts. Ushijima was still trying to process what exactly Oikawa had meant when he cited Hyori’s likely reason for not filing charges and Oikawa was trying to keep his suffocating guilt from crushing his chest. 

They walked silently down the hall, Ushijima stopping in front of his door and putting in his code, holding it open for the model. Oikawa nodded, stepping in and removing his shoes. 

“Would you like to borrow some clothes so you can rest?” Ushijima asked once they crossed into the living room. The air was very still, rays of bleak, orange light coming in from the patio door. 

“Sure, but if it’s another ‘Team Japan’ shirt, I’m gonna fucking puke,” he smirked, then took a short pause. “Were these plants here before?” Oikawa asked, pointing to the array of ferns that were arranged by sliding glass doors. There were about five or six plants, each bright green, varying in shape and size, placed in modern-looking white ceramic pots. 

Ushijima furrowed his brow and turned to follow Oikawa’s outstretched finger. “Yes,” he stated flatly, taking another step closer toward the dining table, where he removed his suit jacket and placed it on the back of one of the chairs.

“I didn’t notice them last time,” Oikawa stated softly, a bit embarrassed for some reason. How could he have not noticed? Was he really that out of it the last time he had been here?

“Taking care of them helps with my anxiety,” Ushijima explained. He was headed toward the kitchen now, his long legs taking formidable strides as he walked. 

Oikawa raised an eyebrow and let out a little chortle of surprise. “The great Wakotoshi Ushijima, the ‘Black Ace’ and ‘Hero of Japan’, has anxiety?” His voice lilted with humor, almost scoffing at the idea.

Ushijima didn’t reply, instead, he busied himself by leaning into the refrigerator. He emerged with a carton of eggs clutched in his left hand. Oikawa caught his golden gaze - his eyes were dim, almost as if his feelings were hurt.

“Wait…” Oikawa’s breath caught in his throat. “Do you really?” 

Ushijima went back to the cabinets and pulled a frying pan from the one next to the fridge and placed it on the stove. “Do you like scrambled eggs?” he asked, though his voice remained distant.

Oikawa placed a feeble hand on the edge of the counter and took just another step closer to the ace. He kept his voice low and gentle as he asked, “Is that why you have trouble sleeping at night?”

Ushijima stopped what he was doing, but did not turn around to meet Oikawa’s gaze. He leaned forward, pressing his palms flat to the counter and took a deep breath. “Yes.”

Oikawa’s heart sank in his chest. Never once had Ushijima made a wry comment about his own mental health struggles, and here he had just openly mocked the ace for something so deeply personal. “I-I,” he stuttered, taking a quick breath. “I’m sorry for what I said just now.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s really not fine, Ushiwaka.” Oikawa licked his bottom lip and swallowed thickly. “I know what anxiety is like, and it wasn’t fair of me to assume you didn’t have it.”

Ushijima stood up straight just then, his full height always causing Oikawa to feel so very small, and faced the setter. His expression was dark, and Oikawa realized for the first time just how  _ tired _ he looked, the bags under his eyes tinted a soft violet. He was still in his suit that was wrinkled from the night it had spent on the floor, the left sleeve of the stark white dress shirt splattered with a few dots of bright crimson, presumably from Hiyori’s nose.

Ushijima remained frozen in place as Oikawa reached out for his left hand, taking it gently in his. Up close, Oikawa could see the battered condition of the ace’s knuckles, skin reddened and peeling from where they had connected with that bastard’s face.

“It needs to be wrapped,” Ushijima grunted as he tore his eyes away. He couldn’t stand to look this closely at Oikawa, not after what they did last night. He had a hard time being this close to him, and being touched by him, even if it was in such an innocent way.

“It looks bad.” Oikawa clicked his tongue as he rolled Ushijima’s hand over, running an elegant thumb across the callused palm of the spiker. “You need to take good care of this hand.”

“Does… um. Does your back hurt?” Ushijima asked, gently clearing his throat as a scarlet color lightly dusted his face. 

Oikawa laughed a little, just a small chuckle under his breath.”You mean does my  _ ass  _ hurt?” he clarified with a small laugh. It was his turn to blush. “Because yes, it does.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Oikawa shook his head. “No, don’t worry about it. I had fun.”

Ushijima couldn’t help the staggering feeling in his chest - he had a lot more than fun last night. He only let out a deep hum in response. He had so much he wanted to say, but he never knew quite how.

Hazel eyes snapped to the ace’s stern face and Oikawa’s expression softened, a sweet smile forming on his lips. “Ushiwaka… do you want to take a bath?”

“A bath?” Ushijima repeated, confused.

“Uh, yeah. I know I showered at the hotel, but all I did was just rinse off a bit.” Oikawa squeezed Ushijima’s hand a little tighter. “I thought maybe soaking in the hot water might help… my back.”

Ushijima pulled his hand away, but not forcefully. He just needed to stop  _ touching _ Oikawa for a moment to regain his thoughts. “I can make some eggs while you’re in the tub,” he offered weakly.

Oikawa shook his head. “No, I wanted to take a bath like, together.” He said the last word with a bit of smooth allure that caught the ace a bit off guard. Maybe he was too tired, maybe he was too enthralled, maybe he was just wound too damn tight from the anxiety that threatened to claw its way out of his ribcage; either way, the offer sounded so unbearably tempting. 

“Okay,” Ushijima whispered, tucking a stray hair behind Oikawa’s ear. The setter leaned up and met his lips, the connection soft and sweet. The ache increased in the olympian’s heart; everything about Oikawa was confusing; he was an overwhelming combination of mixed signals and conflicting touches.

Oikawa took his injured hand and lead him down the hallway, the egg carton still abandoned on the counter. Ushijima tried to note that he would put them away when they were done, not wanting to break up the momentum of whatever was happening. 

“I will start the water,” Ushijima commented as they crossed into the master bedroom. Oikawa blinked, admiring the soft blue hues of the room once again. He swallowed a little, remembering it was probably a color that soothed the ace.

“Sure,” Oikawa said as he slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt, fingers shaking a bit as he did so. Was he anxious now? Oikawa’s mind had been a mess since they woke up and he was struggling, struggling so much to keep his thoughts completely stitched together. When was the last time he got high? Oikawa took a deep breath: he hated that thought. He hated and loved his addiction so much, all at the same time. 

He remembered what he had learned in NA in order to ground him once again, the technique used to calm him down and to fight the need to use. He couldn’t remember the last time he genuinely used the technique, because it reminded him so much of Iwaizumi.

_ Focus on the things around you; what can you hear?  _

The sound of water running into the tub.

_ What can you see? _

Oikawa blinked down at his pale hands. He counted each long, elegant finger as if he needed to be reminded that there were still ten. 

_ What can you smell? _

Ushijima’s musky, earthy cologne still lingering to his own skin.

_ What can you taste? _

The bitter lingering of the menthol cigarette he smoked almost 45 minutes ago.

_ What can you feel? _

The hardwood floor beneath his bare feet, the cold, empty air of the apartment.

“Oikawa?”

Tooru turned his head to gaze upon Ushijima, who stood in the threshold. He was completely naked, every bare muscle laid out for him to drink in. He had seen him last night in the hotel, all low tungsten lights and flashing lust-filled glances. But here in the ace’s high rise apartment, the light of day pouring in from the large window of the bedroom, Oikawa felt like he was seeing him the first time. He was reminiscent of a Greek god; tanned, broad chest; strong, rippling arms; thick, powerful thighs; defined, sexy abs; a strict v-cut waistline that complimented his very large… well, Oikawa got lost on that thought, furiously blushing at realizing -  _ oh, that’s why my lower half feels like it got hit by a truck _ . 

Oikawa finally raised his eyes back to the ace’s face, which was equally red. “Uh, huh?” the model stammered, scolding himself for sounding so stupid once his mouth actually made a sound.

“The bath is ready.”

Oh yeah. The bath. The bath Oikawa suggested they take together. Right. “Oh, sure.”

Ushijima disappeared back behind the door and Oikawa followed him, stepping into the bathroom. The setter vaguely remembered the bathroom, all modern amenities, and stark white tiles. Had he taken a bath in here before? 

Ushijima got into the large jacuzzi tub first, the water adjusting a little for the newly added mass. He nestled into the corner, framing his long, powerful arms on the edges. 

“Are you going to take your clothes off?”

Oikawa looked down. Why was he still wearing his suit pants? The setter laughed nervously, slowly tugging the maroon trousers down his slender thighs, gingerly stepping out of them. Oikawa swallowed again before climbing into the tub.

The water was very warm, but it felt so good on his skin. The shower he had taken at the hotel had been rushed and half-cold, just an attempt to ground him again, give him a quiet moment away from Ushijima in order to collect his thoughts. He slowly sank in, letting each part of his sore body adjust to the temperature. Finally, he settled into the corner opposite of the large ace.

“Is it too hot?”

Oikawa weakly shook his head; the steam was already getting to him a bit, but he didn’t mind. He let his eyes flutter, and then close, as he rested the back of his head against the edge of the square tub. 

“Do you want to sit with me?”

Oikawa opened one eye and sat up a little. The ace’s expression was so genuine, it made it hard to fathom. His golden eyes were glazed with… it wasn’t lust, Oikawa could see that much. Instead, it was more like heartfelt longing, and a bit of timid anxiety that was so opposite of everything he expected from Ushijima.

The model didn’t say anything, instead, he slowly waded through the warm water. He turned around, allowing himself to gently press his back into Ushijima’s chest. Oikawa took a staggering breath at the connection of their skin. It all felt so… honest.

Ushijima wrapped an arm around him, pulling him a bit closer, splaying his large right hand across the setter’s pale chest. The ace buried his nose in the dip in Oikawa’s neck, gently nudging the angel kiss located just below his hairline, the display of affection sending shivers down the model’s spine, despite the heat from the water. The sensation only continued as he felt Ushijima’s warm lips against the sensitive skin just behind his ear, initiating a whine from Oikawa’s throat.

“Are you okay?” The low growl that came from Ushijima was warm and protective, but he could tell it was tinged with anxiety.

“Y-Yeah.” Oikawa didn’t recognize his own voice, it was so weak and vulnerable. 

The grunt that left the spiker’s chest reverbed through Oikawa’s skin. “Why did you come home with me?”

Oikawa watched as Ushijima brought his fingers gently over a pink nipple, the bud a little swollen from the spiker’s enthusiasm just a few hours before. A faint bite mark surrounded it as if he were something that had been claimed, the purple ring so stark against his porcelain skin. “I don’t know,” he admitted. 

He didn’t. He couldn’t explain these things he was feeling. He just wasn’t used to feeling anything at all. Other than the few glasses of wine at the party, he hadn’t had a real drink or pain pill for about a day and a half - he could even calculate the exact hours if he was truly asked. Sobriety was stifling, the emotions and overwhelming color that came with was unbearably just... too much. Why had he come home with Ushijima? Did he actually care about him or was he just too afraid to go back to his own apartment because Hyori might be there? 

“I will wash your hair,” Ushijima stated, pulling the retractable shower head forward. With his long arms, he was able to reach the faucet without jarring Oikawa too much. The setter leaned forward and could feel the warm water rush over his skin again, the pulsing water from the showerhead relaxing. Ushijima raised it higher, Oikawa instinctively dipping his head back as to give him a better angle to rinse his hair. 

Powerful hands began to massage his scalp, the touch just a little too euphoric, pulling a small moan from Oikawa’s lips. The gesture was so loving and sweet, the setter couldn’t help but close his eyes, and drink in the scent of bergamot shampoo. He hummed pleasantly as Ushijima’s hands wandered from his hair, to his neck, to his shoulders he didn’t even realize were tense. “That feels really good, Ushi,” Oikawa all but purred as capable fingers worked through the knots in his back. He dipped his head back again so that the ace could rinse the shampoo away.

“You’re beautiful, Oikawa,” Ushijima commented breathlessly, leaning in against the warm expanse of his neck. 

The setter let out a sleepy sigh, pressing back against the broad chest nestled behind him. He couldn’t ignore the erect member that was pushing so gently against his tailbone. Oikawa was certain it wasn’t intentional but decided to comment anyway. “I thought you brought me in here to relax?” he jested.

Ushijima began to trace a slow, lazy pattern up the setter’s wrist, sketching it to the tender bend of his shoulder. “I don’t plan on touching you,” he assured. “Not like that.”

“Can I touch you?” 

The ace froze, one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub, the other still pressed firmly to the setter’s bicep. He blinked slowly, taking in the sight that was Oikawa, thick chestnut locks wet clinging to his alabaster skin, slow streams of water rolling down freckled and toned shoulders. “You don’t have to.”

Oikawa turned around then, the water gently churning beneath him as he faced the ace. Ushijima held his breath, gazing into the intricate pools of hazel that shined back at him. He couldn’t help but to remember a week ago when those gorgeous irises were all but vanished, overshadowed by blown-out, dark pupils. They were so crystal clear now, albeit a bit tired, but still aware and searching and almost  _ haunting  _ with desire.

“I want to,” Oikawa whispered as he leaned in, his breath hot on Ushijima’s lips. The model’s hands wandered below the water line, disappearing between the olympian’s legs. Ushijima bit his bottom lip as Oikawa took him in between his hands, slow, languid pumps causing his chest to flutter with desire. 

“You need to rest,” the ace countered weakly, fighting the urge pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Sit on the ledge,” Oikawa instructed, squeezing a thick thigh under the water, completely ignoring the half-hearted protest he was receiving. He nodded toward the edge of the tiled tub. Ushijima obeyed, pressing his palms flat against the ledge, using it as leverage to easily slide out of the water. 

Oikawa kneeled, positioning himself between the ace’s long legs, casually spreading them as he nudged the sensitive interior flesh of Ushijima’s right thigh. “I’ll make you feel really good,” the model promised as he took a bit of skin in between his teeth. 

Ushijima trembled, though he was unsure if it was from the cool air hitting his warm, wet back or if it was from the hungry look that Oikawa flashed at him just before slipping his pretty, pink mouth around his flushed erection. Electricity jolted through the hitter, causing a low moan to escape and bounce off the pristine tiles of the bathroom.

Oikawa bobbed his head slowly a few times, taking his sweet time as he flattened his tongue against his shaft, before curling it as he pulled upward, hollowing his cheeks. Oikawa didn’t miss the way Ushijima’s golden eyes flashed as he kitten-licked the already leaking head. “Do you like this, Ushiwaka-chan?” he teased, running the cockhead against his wet bottom lip.

Before the ace could answer, Oikawa had his whole length in his mouth again, this time, pushing further. He could literally feel the wet heat as Oikawa’s throat constricted, letting the thick member slide down and disappear completely, Oikawa’s nose flush to the tender flesh of his lower abdomen. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Ushijima growled, instinctively grabbing a handful of soaking, chocolate brown hair and pulling it, just a little. Oikawa closed his eyes and whimpered at the assertiveness, the humming stimulating the ace even more. 

A series of passionate moans followed as Oikawa continued, gripping the dense muscle of taut thighs as he bobbed his head in a pleasurable, steady rhythm, repeatedly taking him as far as he could. Ushijima was rapidly becoming more and more lightheaded, the steam of the bathroom thick in his lungs and the desire running rampant in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to grab Oikawa and bend him over the ledge of the tub and watch him melt under his touch. The thought of that power surged in his gut and he gasped for air.

“Oikawa,” he muttered breathlessly, brushing the setter’s hair away from his forehead so he could get a better view of the reddened, hollowed out cheeks and hazel eyes brimming with tears of pleasure. “I’m going to--”, but his thoughts were immediately cut off as Oikawa added his hand to the mix, pumping Ushijima in time with the dutiful dips of his head. 

Haughty, panting expletives rolled from Ushijima, mouth gaping with unadulterated pleasure, the ace instinctively bucking his hips to get even further into Oikawa’s mouth. The setter growled deeper as tears caught the corner of his eyes, his moans muted from his over-filled mouth.

Ushijima arched his back as white lightning flashed through him, his thoughts scattered across his mind. He tried to push Oikawa away as he came, but the setter locked himself in place, stare holding tight as the seed entered his eager mouth, splaying hot across his tongue. Oikawa trembled as he swallowed, continuing to pump Ushijima through his orgasm until he was sure the ace was empty and satiated. 

“ _ Tooru _ ,” Ushijima whispered, cupping the setter’s flushed face in his hands as he leaned down to press their seat-laden foreheads together. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Oikawa’s tongue danced across his bottom lip, sweeping to capture the last bit of the sticky seed left there. “I wanted to,” he replied simply, his words a bit weak as they left his swollen throat. 

Ushijima slid back down into the basin of the tub, sending water splashing over the edges, but the spiker didn’t care. In a swift motion, he engulfed Oikawa into a sweeping kiss, completely unbothered by the contents the setter’s mouth contained just moments before. 

The kiss was sweet and affectionate; it tasted of all the things that Hyori’s never did. It was possessive in a way that wasn’t terrifying or stifling, instead, it felt warm and comforting, just a slow series of tender brushes of lips and hands firm on Oikawa’s hips. 

It was the model who pulled away first, completely overwhelmed; he was starting again, starting to feel too much. He was acutely aware of the color in his face, the deafening roar in his ears, the tingling fluidity in his fingers as they instinctively traced Ushijima’s rippling bicep. 

“Are you okay?” It must have been the second or third time he had asked that since Oikawa pulled away, he surmised, given the pained and panicked expression crossing the olympian’s typically stoic face. 

“Ah, yeah.” There wasn’t a lot of power or weight behind the confirmation, Oikawa dragging his hazel gaze to the surface of the water, unable to keep making eye contact with the hitter.

“Do you want to get out?”

Oikawa swallowed, “I will in a moment.”

“Do you want me to stay in here with you?”

Oikawa shook his head. “I just want a few moments alone, I think.”

Ushijima gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and leaned in, giving the setter one last gentle kiss before rising to full height. “I will put some clean clothes for you on the bed whenever you’re ready to get out and lay down.” He let his hand linger a moment longer before getting out and wrapping an oversized bath sheet around his waist.

Oikawa watched as Ushijima opened his medicine cabinet to retrieve his toothbrush and that’s when he spotted it - the unmistakable bright orange of a prescription pill bottle. It was just a flash, a quick glimpse, but the very sight of the harsh, partially translucent plastic sent a jolt up Oikawa’s spine and his mouth to cotton. 

He wasn’t entirely aware of what Ushijima was doing, only hyperfocused on the sounds that accompanied his actions - the little metallic ‘click’ of the medicine cabinet opening, then closing, followed by the soft shuffle of damp feet as Ushijima exited the bathroom with a soft, final pull of the bathroom door.

The setter let out a heavy, weighted breath and leaned back against the wall of the tub once more, bringing his wrist to push against his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, he felt like he was suffocating on the forceful pull of his addiction. He couldn’t get the orange bottle out of his mind - what was in it? Pain medication? Muscle relaxers? Maybe… he let his thoughts trail off as he sat up, trying not to slosh the water around and alert Ushijima. 

He stilled himself for a few moments, trying to practice the technique he had used earlier, running the questions through his mind… what were the questions again? He couldn’t seem to connect his thoughts. 

Before he knew what was going on, without fully realizing that he had been moving, he was standing in front of the cabinet, hands shaking.  _ Don’t open it _ , he pleaded with himself, squeezing his eyes shut.  _ Don’t fucking open it. _

Another sharp, staggered breath cut through his lungs as he trembled, leaning most of his body weight on the counter, taking everything in his power to keep his hands from moving up to the medicine cabinet, from crying, from anything.

_ Aren’t you tired of feeling yet _ ? Asked the gnawing, mocking voice inside of his skull. It was always his own voice he heard, just a little sick sounding and far away, as it was coming from someone else.

Oikawa opened the cabinet, overwhelmingly cognizant of the slight squeak that rose from the ball bearings of the hinge as it strained against the slow weight of the setter’s push. There it was, stark and orange and beckoning, the white label facing out.

_ Xanax, .25 mg _

_ Prescribed to Ushijima Wakatoshi _

_ Take once a day as needed for anxiety attacks. _

Oikawa quickly unscrewed the cap and tapped out two bars of the off-white medication into his trembling palm. This was it, this was perfect, this was the escape. He didn’t need to worry about the guilt that was eating a hole in his stomach, didn’t have to face the harsh reality that he was ruining his rival’s career, and possibly his life… 

No, it didn’t matter anymore. Oikawa opened his mouth and felt his heart lurch with a heavy wave of relief as he swallowed, letting the pills slide down his throat. He gripped the bottle with enough force that his knuckles were turning white. 

Soon, he would be high enough that he wouldn’t even feel the regret burning in his veins. 

\-------------

The room was quiet, so still. It was always like this, every single morning. Not much had changed, except for the fact that Oikawa was sleeping next to him, dressed only in a pair of boxers and a navy blue t-shirt that was just a little too big, his face pushed gently into the pillow.

He was so motionless lying there on top of the duvet that Ushijima feared that if he were to reach out and touch him, he might shatter as if were merely an apparition composed of glass hopes and expectations. The thought caused a stuttering fluter to manifest in his chest as he took in a jagged breath. 

He needed to get up and call Tanaka - he knew that. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, or what time it was, but he knew he was overdue to face whatever consequences awaited him. Just because Hyori wasn’t pressing formal charges at the moment didn’t mean anything - he could still be suspended.

Ushijima slowly pulled back the covers in an attempt to not disturb Oikawa and made his way out of the room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. He retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket he had left on the back of the chair. It was almost dead, as to be expected, but was still clinging for life at 5% battery. He swiped through all of the missed call notifications and texts from Bokato and Kuroo - he’d answer those later. With a heavy breath, he pressed the name of his publicist and then hit the green phone icon.

A half a ring later a stern and tired sounding voice answered, “It’s 2 p.m., Ushijima-san.”

“I am sorry, Tanaka-san.” 

“What happened?”

“I punched someone.” His words were flat and even.

“Why?” she asked without skipping a beat. 

Ushijima cleared his throat, trying to keep his composure. “Hyori Tono, the man I struck… he had hurt Oikawa.”

“Was he hurting him at the party?”

Ushijima shook his head, only vaguely aware that Kiyoko couldn’t actually see the gesture. “No.”

“I spoke to the modeling agency and he is not pressing charges…  _ at the moment _ .” She emphasized the last three words, stressing the gravity of the situation: that fact could change at any moment.

“I know.”

A quick, audible exhale came over the receiver. “Daichi?” The spiker gave only a small hum of confirmation.

“We still have to give you consequences for your actions.”

“I know.”

The publicist’s sigh that followed was lilted, softening her voice, peeling away the harsh undertones it had possessed just a moment ago. “I… I have to let them demote you as captain. Coach has decided to give the position to Bokuto-san.”

That comment hurt more than Ushijima thought it would. “I understand,” he said evenly, doing his best to govern the disappointment in his reply. “Bokuto will be a good captain.” That wasn’t a lie, Ushijima really believed his longtime teammate would be a great replacement in his stead.

“And one of the sponsors is cutting your contact. It’s not the biggest one you have, but you might want to check your finances. I was able to negotiate a clean cut without you owing anything back, but I wanted you to be aware that you wouldn’t be garnering any future income from them.”

“I understand.”

Silence came over the line for a few long seconds before Kiyoko spoke again. “Ushijima-san?” Goosebumps of anticipation prickled across his skin. “You’re still on the Olympic team and you will still be representing the great nation of Japan on the world stage. I have no doubt you will help lead us to victory.”

“Thank you,” came the mechanical reply, stiff with brevity under the reality of his situation. 

“Take care of yourself, Ushijima-san. Get some rest and I will come by practice tomorrow with more details.”

“Yes, Tanaka-san.”

With that, the call ended as abruptly as it had started. The ace could only stare down at his phone, the dark screen allowing him to catch his reflection and the morose expression on his face. This  _ hurt _ . It hurt in a way that was difficult to grasp. He took a deep breath, trying to hold in the swelling ache building in his bones. He tried to focus on the good, which was the fact he was still on the team: he could still play volleyball for his country.

Ushijima put his phone down on the counter, plugging it into the charger on the kitchen island. He would need it charged later if he was going to call Bokuto back, but that could wait. He needed a chance for his thoughts to catch up before he spoke to his teammates.

And right now, his thoughts were still clouded by Oikawa. Their shared moment in the bathtub, coupled with their obvious connection in the hotel room… did it mean something to the setter? Because it meant a lot to Ushijima. While he definitely  _ wasn’t _ a virgin, he understood how it felt when he was with Oikawa was beyond what he had felt with anyone else before.

These thoughts lead him back down the hall as if being guided by the idea of seeing him again, touching him again, making sure he was still there, safe and in his bed.

“Oikawa?” the Olympian whispered as he entered the blue bedroom, now bathed in the orange afternoon sun. Ushijima kneeled down on the far side of the bed, lovingly carding his hands through the model’s hair. He was still so very motionless, his breath barely moving his chest as he…

“Oikawa?” The name came out more panicked this time as the alarm bells in his head began to fire and the crippling realization crushed his windpipe. He called the setter’s name again as he grasped his narrow shoulders, giving them a gentle shake. When no response came, he tried again, shaking a little more violent this time, a little more desperate, a little more distressed.

Ushijima’s blood ran cold as his eyes connected with the orange medication bottle on the nightstand, placed beside Oikawa’s phone. His brain could only produce one repeated word:

_ No. _

_ No. _

_ …. no. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so don't hate me, please. :<
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read. I really appreciate any comments or kudos, they really help keep me motivated when I feel a bit stuck, which I have been lately. I want to make a great story for you guys, and the past week I have been really struggling to connect some dots. I know where this story is going, but it's always the middle that keeps me anchored down. I haven't written a fanfic since I was 14 years old (which was like, almost 14 years ago lol) and I definitely haven't written anything formal for public consumption like this since then, either, so just know it means a lot to me.
> 
> My in-laws are in town this weekend, so pray for me (ha!). But I promise to get back in and post next week's chapter.
> 
> Next week: God bless Suga.


	8. One Door Opens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this chapter. It's been one of the most fun to write and I hope you see why!!

“Let me go back there.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand, Ushijima doing nothing to mask the erratic rise in his voice.

Suga softened his features as he reached up and touched the olympian gently on the shoulders, trying to ground him in place. “Wakatoshi, listen to me,” the nurse’s tone soothing and sweet, attempting to give the larger man some comfort. “You know you can’t go back there right now, not until Oikawa wakes up and consents to visitors. You know why: you’re not technically family nor are you his emergency contact.”

“He was in my house and--” Ushijima attempted to counter, but it was Daichi’s stare that cut him off, the dark brown eyes sending a warning glance over Suga’s shoulder.

“Listen to me, sweetheart,” Suga stated, addressing the ace directly, “I have to get back to my own floor right now. But the gals here in the emergency ward will take good care of him, okay? He’s breathing, and they’ve pumped his stomach, so now we need to let him get some rest. I’ve already said more than I’m legally supposed to, but Daichi is here with you. Okay?” His eyes were sweet as honey, just like his words, before he leaned and gave the unsuspecting man a warm embrace, wrapping his arms firmly around him. “You’re a good man, ‘Toshi.”

Suga released his hug and turned to his partner, who he hugged in turn, this time a little longer, and a little more intimate. With a quick kiss on the lips, the silver-haired beauty whispered, ‘see you later’, to the detective before disappearing down the double doors at the end of the hall.

Ushijima watched as Daichi watched his partner leave, unable to keep himself from admiring the loving expression the former Karasuno captain wore on his face. Even after all these years, it appeared his love and admiration for his former setter never faltered. 

“You love him, don’t you?” 

Daichi turned and faced the tall ace, a smirk painted on his handsome features. “My husband?” he laughed. “Yes, I do love him.”

“What do others say?”

The question caught him off guard, but he shook it off. “Let’s go sit down,” Daichi replied, gesturing to the door to his left. Suga had taken them to a private, smaller waiting room, offset from the crowded public waiting room for the emergency room. This one was reserved for families waiting for scheduled, non-emergency surgeries, and since it was a Sunday afternoon, it was empty. 

Ushijima followed the detective’s lead and followed him inside, choosing to sit next to him on one of the black, plastic chairs. Daichi was technically still on duty, though he had insisted it was fine and his shift would end soon. He was dressed in gray button-down, tucked neatly into black slacks, paired with a professional navy blue tie. The ace caught a flash of Daichi’s badge clipped just inside his interior pocket as he undid the bottom button of his suit jacket as he sat. “Some people don’t like it,” the former captain finally answered after taking a thoughtful breath. He didn’t look over at Ushijima as he replied, his dark eyes fixed forward on the sailboat painting that hung on the opposite wall. “Why do you ask? You’ve known about us since college.”

Ushijima hummed thoughtfully and looked forward; it was his turn to stare blankly at the generic stock art. He had known about Daichi and Suga since college, and while they were friends, obviously, he just never thought much about it. It didn’t bother him, nor did he ever pay much attention to see if it bothered anyone else. 

When the ace didn’t answer, Daichi spoked again. “Are you asking because you want a relationship with Oikawa?”

The golden gaze that met Daichi’s eyes stunned him, the honesty held within it was raw and palpable. “I do,” he deadpanned almost casually, as if he had just told Daichi the time. 

The detective let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the black chair. “Was it not the same when you dated Saito?” 

“Saito and I didn’t date.”

Daichi scoffed and narrowed his eyes. “Then what were you two doing for almost a year?”

Ushijima swallowed thickly, his throat feeling heavy from his impending reply. “I don’t know,” he said softly. A moment of silence followed before he added, “I was in love with him and he wasn’t in love with me.”

This admission bewildered Daichi, causing him to sit back up. He placed a firm hand on Ushijima’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“Will that happen again? With Oikawa?” Daichi felt stunned yet again by the question. He couldn’t remember a time when the former Shiratorizowa captain ever showed this much emotion. 

“Do you feel like it’s already happening?” Daichi asked carefully, focusing on the almost unreadable expression on the ace’s angular face. 

“Yes.” 

The quiet that filled the space between them was tangible, almost thick enough to be considered suffocating. Somewhere in the room, an analog clock ticked the time away, the afternoon dragging slowly into the evening. 

“I love Koushi more than anything on this planet, more than myself, actually. We can’t legally marry, and now we have a daughter that we can’t legally adopt together, either. It’s hard, Ushijima. A lot of people don’t understand, and they say we’re sick or that we’re just going ‘through a phase’ or whatever bullshit rhetoric they like to play on repeat. But I would give up anything for him and Nanami, anything at all, for us to stay a family.” He leaned forward and pressed his face into his palms, his features soft and wistful, his dark eyes shining with what was almost reminiscent of longing. “You find that person, Ushijima, and that’s it. You make sacrifice after sacrifice to ensure their well-being and happiness and to shelter them from whatever, even if they insist they’re capable of handling it on their own.” He tilted his head toward the ace. “And you deserve someone who would do the exact same for you.”

Ushijima turned his face away, incapable of looking at Daichi at that moment - his heart hurt with the words of advice that were given to him. “I’ve known I’ve loved Oikawa for a long time. That’s why I wanted him to join me at Shiratorizawa, and then in college,” the olympian explained. “So that I could protect him.”

The corners of Daichi’s dark eyes crinkled a bit as he gave a small, sympathetic smile. “Does it feel unrequited?” 

“Sometimes. But I don’t know who the real Oikawa is now,” Ushijima explained. That was the hardest part - he didn’t know which Oikawa he was with, nor if his actions were genuine or if they were just forced and fraudulent, things he did just to get closer to his high. 

“I’m afraid that his sobriety will be the only thing that will lift that veil for you, Ushijima.” 

At that moment, Daichi’s work phone penetrated the otherwise quiet waiting room, triggering him to stand. “Sawamura,” he answered the phone flatly. He made eye contact with Ushijima and then gestured toward the door, before disappearing behind it, leaving the ace alone with his thoughts.

\----------------

“Lots of sweet faces today,” Suga hummed to his coworker as he gently swaddled a newborn baby, wrapping the delicate child in a soft blanket. Suga would never get over how tiny and new they all looked, so pale and just a little purple, all scrunched faces framed with faint wafts of soft hair.

“Yes indeed,” his coworker agreed, a blond-haired female nurse. 

Suga smiled softly as he lowered the baby back into her bassinet and cooed.

“Nurse Sugawara-san?” 

The silver-haired man turned his head as the voice of the Director of Nursing called his name. “Yes ma’am?” he asked. It was unusual to see her in the labor and delivery ward.

“You’re needed down in the emergency unit. You’re being requested by a detective to provide insight for a case?” The large woman eyed him suspiciously, giving the small man a once over.

_ Daichi, maybe? _ Koushi wondered,  _ but we just said goodbye a few hours ago? _ Normally, if Daichi wanted to see him, he didn’t make excuses, he just headed straight to the labor and delivery ward. “Sure, I’ll head down right away, it’s almost the end of my shift.” He turned toward his coworker. “Will you be okay if I go?”

The blonde woman nodded, flippantly waving her hand. “No issue here!”

Suga gave her a nod before washing his hands at the nurses’ station and getting in the elevator. The emergency ward was on the ground floor, and when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, he was greeted by his husband, who looked very serious. He held what looked like a suit stuffed in a protective bag in one hand and his well-used leather briefcase in the other. 

“Suga,” the detective stated, narrowing his dark eyes into a sharp gaze. “I need back up.”

Suga didn’t have time to even think of a response by the time his partner grabbed him and they were headed down the hallway together toward the emergency ward.

\-------------------

The electronic hum of the machines, the faint, steady beep of the heart monitor and the cold, dejected scent of disinfectant were all so very familiar at this point. It didn’t take Oikawa opening his eyes to figure out where he was - a hospital. He let out a soft sigh from his parched throat, the sensation triggering a scratchy cough. He sat up, sending the blood rushing to his head and darkening his vision as he sputtered, one hand on his chest, the other covering his mouth.

“Woah, hang on, I’ll get you some water.”

Oikawa’s eyes flew open, the clawing cough forgotten. This had to be a dream.

“Here, take small sips or you’ll choke.”

The model leaned forward, eyes fixed on the face in front of him as he wrapped his pink lips around the end of a plastic straw.  _ Yes, this has to be a dream _ , he convinced himself as the ice-cold liquid soothed his irritated throat. He blinked heavily, trying to bat away the illusion, the mirage, the apparition that was in front of him. There was no way, no fucking way.

“Did that help?”

The voice was so familiar, yet so foreign. He had heard it over half his life, but hadn’t heard it for three years, the sound was so sharp as it fell on his eardrums. 

“I-Iwa-chan?” he stuttered in disbelief, his voice so low it almost didn’t even leave his voicebox. 

The dark-haired man laughed as he pulled the oversized plastic mug away. “Uh, yeah. It’s me.”

Oikawa furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “W-Why?” 

Iwaizumi set the cup down on the end table next to the hospital bed before lowering himself in the chair by the window. He ran a powerful hand thoughtfully through his short, black hair. “I’m still your emergency contact,” he admitted sheepishly.

“You’ve never come before.” There was no denying that fact - this wasn’t the first time that Oikawa had landed himself in the emergency room over the last three-ish years. In fact, it happened at least once every six months: a nasty, drunken trip and fall leading to a concussion in the backside of a bar, then there was alcohol poisoning over New Year’s, and once he even collapsed on set due to malnutrition and lack of sleep. All those times, Iwaizumi never once showed up to the hospital. In fact, no one usually ever came to visit him in the ER until he called Hyori for a ride. Usually someone from the agency sent flowers, but that was about it.

His former best friend sighed heavily and turned to look out the window. “I’m sorry, Oikawa.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I should have changed my emergency contact info…”  _ But I had no one else to add _ , he finished that thought, the admission sending a dagger through his heart.

“Are you okay?” Iwaizumi turned back to face Oikawa. The model looked so thin and frail in his hospital gown, the light green pattern paled him even further. His chocolate-colored hair was matted to his head and his eyes looked so distant and a bit sad. The sight frustrated Iwaizumi in a way that was hard to explain.

“Uh,” Oikawa looked down at himself for the first time and observed the IV drip that hung from his left forearm. “I guess I’ve been better.”

“You guess, huh, Shittykawa?” the former spiker chided, clicking his tongue sarcastically. 

“Why did you come?” He couldn’t tame the question as it left his mouth. He had to know why Iwa-chan was here, after all this time, speaking to him like he never left, like the wedding day never happened, like the last three years were all just a nightmare. 

The shorter man ran his hand down the back of his neck, Oikawa caught the glint of his wedding band in the fluorescent lights. His expression was a bit conflicted, but still thoughtful. “Hmm,” he hummed. “Risa is here at the hospital for an appointment, too.”

“Is she okay?” Oikawa swallowed heavily, leaning a little closer to the guard rail of the bed.

“Oh, yeah she’s good.” His cheeks reddened a bit, so faint against his dark, tanned skin. “It’s a baby check-up.”

“Baby?”

Iwaizumi nodded. “Yeah, she’s pregnant. Getting ready to enter the second trimester, so we’re here for a check-up.”

Oikawa blinked slowly, his still half-awake brain trying to process the new information. “Iwa-chan is going to be a dad?”

Iwaizumi’s face brightened at that comment, his eyes shining, his whole demeanor brimming with excitement. “Yeah,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

Oikawa smacked his hands together; it was his turn for his face to light up like festival fireworks. “Oh, Iwa-chan, congrats!” The well-wish was genuine, as was his enthusiasm. “You are going to the best dad in the world!” He held out his arms, prompting Iwaizumi to stand and greet his longtime friend in a warm embrace.

Oikawa couldn’t help the feelings of nostalgia and familiarity that washed over him when he caught the musky, woody smell of Iwaizumi’s cologne as the warmth of his hug engulfed him. Oikawa squeezed his broad shoulders tight as soft, silent tears built in his eyes. They stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, yet milliseconds, all the at the same time. By the time Iwaizumi pulled away and stood up, both men’s faces were red and cheekbones stained with tears. 

“So why are you here, dummy?” Oikawa chided, wiping his face with the back of his wrist. “Shouldn’t you be at the appointment?” 

The raven-haired hitter wiped his emerald eyes, catching warm tears with the pads of his fingers. “Yeah, her mom went with her for this one. Risa wanted me to come up here.” He glanced down at his shoes. “And I wanted to come, too.”

Oikawa couldn’t govern the heartfelt smile that crossed his face. “I’m glad you did.”

Iwaizumi cleared his throat and took a step back away from the bed. He fiddled with the zipper of his jacket anxiously, looking a little apprehensive to speak again. “I…” he started, then his voice trailed off. Oikawa could feel the shift in the air. 

“I’m sorry, for everything,” Oikawa blurted suddenly, his heart wrenched at the sight of Iwa-chan’s distressed look.

“I know, Tooru.” Iwaizumi’s green eyes were a bit glassy as he nodded. “Risa and I both forgive you. Not that,” he took a heavy breath as he pulled at the hem of his dark jacket, “you should apologize for feeling the way you did. You couldn’t help your feelings, just like I couldn’t help that I was unable to return them to you. But we forgive you for the execution, I guess is what I'm trying to say.”

“It’s a bit complicated, isn’t it, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa smiled, but it didn’t reach his hazel eyes. He pulled his knees under his chin and pressed his face against the starchy, white blanket, the material a bit coarse beneath the soft skin of his cheek. “I’m sorry that I made it that way.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, really. That’s not what I came here for, anyway.”

“Oh?” Oikawa scrunched his face in confusion. 

“Yeah,” the dark hair man replied, this time, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I just came to make sure you were okay. Risa and I were both worried when we got the call. It seemed… different, this time.”

“It was.”

“Do you really want to die, Tooru?” The question was heavy, perhaps the heaviest thing Iwaizumi had ever asked anyone. The doctor had explained to Iwaizumi what happened, that he was found unresponsive at a friend’s apartment and was rushed here, where his stomach was pumped, then he was filled to the gills with vital fluids to rehydrate him. The doctor had expressed concerns that it was a possible suicide attempt, but that they had no way of knowing if the overdose was intentional or accidental until Oikawa woke up and confirmed the information.

Oikawa shifted under the blanket, folding himself over his legs, squeezing them as tight as possible to his chest that he worried he would push the last weak breath from his body. He blinked slowly, combating tears that threatened to fall down his face once again. “No, I don’t think I really do.” His reply was soft, barely a whisper that could be heard above the hum of the heating vent. “I think I’m just afraid of living.”

“You’ve been through a lot, Oikawa, and I know I haven’t been there--”

A small laugh fluttered from the model’s chest, the tone feeling uncertain, laced with anxiety. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to blame yourself for my downfall, Hajime. You’ve done enough, you don’t get to carry that cross, too.”

“But I--”

“You have a  _ family _ ,” Oikawa stressed, shaking his head. “You had someone to take care of, and that wasn’t me. And it wasn’t fair of me to keep taking from you. I was tearing you apart with my addiction, and it just wasn’t fair.” His voice broke at the last word, coming out as a light sob.

Iwaizumi took a step closer to the bed and reached out, giving Oikawa’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. The taller man shuddered under the touch, reaching up to wipe his face. “I just want you to find happiness, Oikawa, because you deserve it more than anyone else I know.”

“You still believe that about me? That I am a man who can handle sobriety?”

Iwaizumi kneeled beside the bed, taking Oikawa’s trembling hand between his two firm ones. “Of course I do. You’re the strongest man I know, and you’re a  _ good _ man. Risa and I both just want you to get better and take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sobbed, rubbing his face against the blanket. “I will try my best.” He gave Iwaizumi’s hand a tight final squeeze as the former hitter rose from his spot and released his hold.

“Well, I better get back to Risa. She and her mom should be coming out of her appointment soon.”

The smile Oikawa offered didn’t reach his eyes. He was heartbroken to see what he once believed was the love of his life leaving, but at the same time, he was overjoyed and proud of the man and husband, and soon to be father, Iwa-chan, his very best friend, had become. “Sure, I’m glad you stopped by. And I’ll uh, update my emergency contact info.”

“If that’s what you want, Oikawa,” he offered with a nod.

“It is. I think it’s time.”

Iwaizumi gave another affirming nod. “Oh, one more thing?”

“Hmm?” Oikawa cocked a curious eyebrow.

“Uh, was that Ushiwaka talking to Daichi out in the lobby?”

The laugh that left Oikawa was the first genuine one he had given in a long time. “Ah, yes it was.”

“Is there a story behind that?”

Iwaizumi didn’t miss the glint in Oikawa’s hazel eyes as he smiled affectionately. “Yeah, there kind of is.” He cleared his throat gently before adding, “I think I kinda like him.”

Iwa-chan smiled back. “Be happy, Tooru.”

“Name the baby after me, Iwa-chan!” the model giggled as his former hitter flipped him the bird while exiting his room. 

Oikawa collapsed back onto the bed, but his thoughts didn’t linger on Iwa-chan for too long. Instead, they flitted over to the champion ace with golden eyes and olive-brown hair, causing his heart to swell. 

Maybe this life was worth living.

\--------------------

Suga was pretty sure this was a bad idea. In fact, he knew it was the worst idea possibly  _ ever _ , given the harsh reviews he had gotten for his acting skills in the fourth grade when he gave a very uninspired rendition of ‘Tom Sawyer’ along with the rest of his class. Acting was not for him.

Actually, what they were doing wasn’t just  _ acting _ , it was  _ impersonating _ , which was definitely, one hundred percent illegal. Which Daichi should know, because he was a real detective and Suga was just dressed like one, having changed out of his comfortable scrubs and into a blue suit that was just a little too big on him. Suga chalked it up to one that Daichi had borrowed from poor sap built about his size at the station.

Suga sighed. He was going to jail. He knew it. They both were. And little Nanami would grow up without her dads and this was just plain stupid.

“You don’t have to say anything, not really. Just nod a lot,” Daichi instructed him as they lingered outside a near-empty office at the back of the hospital. “You’re mostly like a decoy… like Hinata was.”

Suga rolled his eyes. “This isn’t volleyball, Daichi! This is someone’s life! Multiple lives! And felonies!” His voice was a harsh, panicked whisper.

Daichi laughed. “You’ve watched enough of that American ‘Law and Order’ show to know what’s going on. Plus I’ve been doing this for three years, studied it for four. You know all the jargon from all of the flash cards.” 

“Okay, then on that basis, you take a blood sample from a newborn baby right now.”

Daichi scrunched his nose. “What?”

Suga raised his eyebrows. “See, this is what I’m saying! That logic does not pan out whatsoever. Just because I’ve read something doesn’t mean I know how to do it. You helped me with my flashcards but that doesn’t make you a goddamn nurse!” He was hissing through clenched teeth now, obviously sweating a little.

Daichi sighed and tucked a strand of gray hair behind Suga’s ear. “Listen, babe. Just listen to me,” he repeated when he noticed Suga’s signature eye roll. “Nothing I am going to say in this room is going to be a lie. Not a damn thing, so this isn’t actually illegal. What he assumes based on information presented is a tactic we use when we interrogate.” 

“It’s police intimidation… or imitation... or something!” 

“Deep breath,” Daichi instructed as he pushed the office door open. Suga’s eyes widened as they stepped inside and closed the door. Seated in a wingback chair was a handsome man, about their age. He had long legs and dark hair. He was dressed casually, tortoiseshell glasses pushed up high against his angular nose, which Suga immediately noticed was bruised a rich purple and it looked... broken? _Ah, that's what it means to be on the recieving end of Ushiwaka's south paw_ , the nurse concluded in his thoughts. 

“Tono Hiyori?” Daichi asked, taking a step inside and holding out his hand. The young man narrowed his eyes inquisitively before shaking it. “I am Detective Sawamura Daichi and this is my partner, Sugawara Koushi.” Suga copied Daichi and extended his hand as well before the duo took a seat on the tan sofa across from the stranger.

“What can I do for you gentleman? I do have someone I am here to visit.” His voice was edged with annoyance and suspicion. He shuffled slightly in his seat.

“Ah, yes, that’s why we're here too, actually.” Daichi opened his briefcase and removed a leather portfolio, one that Suga recognized to be the one that Daichi used to carry around important documents and case files. It has spent many an evening sprawled open on their kitchen table with a very tired and exasperated Daichi centered in front of it. The detective continued, producing a rather large stack of papers that caused Suga to furrow his brow. What did his husband have up his sleeve?

“Oh?” Hiyori inquired, leaning a bit forward, his amber eyes tinged with concern, though his voice remained mocking. “Is there something I can help you with.”

“There is, actually.” Daichi shuffled through the papers casually, as if he wasn’t scanning for anything in particular. “Are you here to visit Oikawa Tooru?”

Suga’s eyes shifted to the stranger’s face, which seemed to darken in almost an instant. Then, as if a light came on, it lit back up again. Suga couldn’t help but to silently shiver at such polar shifts in mood. 

“I am,” the man said finally, breaking up Suga’s thoughts.

“Good, because I have some questions.” Daichi reached inside his interior jacket pocket, giving Hyori a glance at his golden badge as he retrieved an ink pen. Suga watched carefully as his husband started to jot down something at the top of one of the papers. He squinted; he wasn’t entirely sure what the documents were, but it looked like…

“These are phone records,” Daichi stated, affirming Suga’s hypothesis. 

“And?” Hyori asked disinterestedly, leaning back in his chair. Suga watched as he crossed his legs, almost like he didn’t care. 

“Specifically, these are Oikawa’s phone records.” Daichi lifted his dark gaze from the paper to the man in question. “And there seems to be quite a bit of incriminating information contained in these records, Mr. Tono.”

Hiyori huffed, switching legs. “Incriminating about  _ what _ ?” he asked with a laugh that was void of humor but brimming with apprehension. 

“Glad you asked,” Daichi stated, giving a smirk. If they weren’t in the exact scenario they were in at the moment, Suga would have melted and then lunged at his husband. But he couldn’t, so he simply added the sexy expression to his memory bank for use later. The detective turned the documents around to give Hiyori a better view. “According to what you said in your direct correspondence with Oikawa, it would appear that you have been involved with drug trafficking, sexual assault, coheresion, blackmail, use of several illicit substances and… well, I’m sure I could probably find a few more, if I looked hard enough.”

Hiyori’s glare became menacing, but Suga could feel that it lacked confidence. He glanced at Daichi once more who appeared unwavered by the lethal expression he was receiving. If looks could kill…

“I’m sorry, is this a joke?” Hiyori laughed again, this time, clasping his hands together in the center of his chest. “I’m sure it has to be. The agency is always trying to pull one over on us.”

“I am afraid not, Mr. Tono,” Daichi stated, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to tell you that these allegations are quite serious.”

The man leaned forward again, amber eyes narrowed and threatening. “So you mean to tell me, based on those phone records, you think I am guilty of something that Oikawa isn’t?” He waved a dismissing hand in front of his face. “Talk to me when he’s under arrest, too.”

“Well that’s the kicker here, Tono,” Suga was speaking without even realizing it, the words coming out of his mouth so fast and so instinctively that he couldn’t govern it. “Your actions put a man in the hospital, and that’s something our department takes quite seriously.” That much wasn’t a lie - Suga’s department, the  _ nursing _ department, did take hospitalizations quite seriously.

“Please, Oikawa put himself here,” Tono squawked, turning his attention to Suga. “Don’t pin his addiction on me.”

Suga could feel Daichi’s eyes on him, his heart was pounding in his chest. “Empty your pockets,” Daichi stated firmly, folding his arms across his broad chest.

“Fuck you.”

“See, that’s the deal, Tono,” Daichi’s words were low and commanding. Suga was internally screaming - he had no idea what he had just added to the conversation and he was straight up  _ panicking _ . Suga had gone in here blind with no real idea who or what they were facing. “I have very, very strong evidence that would put you away for quite a while should Oikawa press formal charges against you. However, I’m not going to do that.” He gave a little shrug and made a passive face.

Tono’s face was alight with confusion now, his golden eyes searching the faces of the two men in suits in front of him. “Excuse me? Then why drag me in here in the first place? I’m leav--” and as soon as he started to rise, Daichi rose, too. Hiyori was taller by several inches, but he was still no match for Daichi’s broad body and confident stance. 

“I’m afraid you’re not, not at least until I offer you a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yes. A deal. Are you ready to listen?”

Hiyori lowered back to his seat, but kept his body language guarded. “What is it?” he practically spat.

“You never press charges against Ushijima Wakatoshi and you never contact Oikawa Tooru again, and I will see to it that Oikawa returns the favor. All three of you fine gentlemen walk away, right out of each other’s lives.” The dark haired detective folded his hands in his lap, carefully examining Hiyori’s response. Suga swallowed, he was defintely going to fuck his husband after this.

“Or what?” Hiyori asked through gritted teeth. He was squeezing his jaw so tight, Suga was afraid the model’s beautiful teeth might crack under the pressure.

“Or, you can turn out your pockets right now and I will arrest you for a whole different reason.” He tapped the stack of papers with a firm index finger. “I have all the probable cause I need and I know you have some sort of illegal substance on hand.”

Hiyori scoffed and turned his face away. “Dirty fucking cops, huh? Working for that fuck face of a volleyball player? Give me a break.”

“Final offer,” Daichi reiterated, his tone balanced but absolutely menacing. 

Hiyori shot up from his seat and shoved his hands in the pocket of his designer coat. “You know what, fine. Fuck that little slut anyway. I’m done playing with his disease-riddled ass. I’ll take your deal - make sure you and that little bitch stay out of my life for good.” Suga smiled even though he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to. “Oh, and make sure he quits the agency. I don’t want to see him around anymore.”

“Deal,” Daichi agreed, rising from his spot. “But only because I think it would be the best thing for Oikawa anyway.”

Hyori scoffed and stormed toward the door. “If I ever see either of you again, I’m turning you into your department for all of the unethical shit you’ve done today.”

Suga waved, a smirk plastered on his face. “Bye-bye now! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!”

The door slammed shut, Suga knew it was loud enough that it probably echoed into the hallway, but he didn’t care. They had just achieved a bit of justice for their friends. “Babe! Oh my god, how hot were you?!” Suga asked once a few silent moments had passed, throwing his arms around his lover’s neck.

Daichi leaned down and gave Suga a passionate kiss. “Did you like that?” he asked with a spark in his eye. “Was I cool?”

“The  _ coolest _ ,” Suga admitted before leaning in for another sweeping kiss. “But you said we wouldn’t lie to him and we totally did.” He couldn’t mask the concern in his voice.

Daichi vehemently shook his head. “Nope, never lied. Not once.”

Suga scrunched his face. “What do you mean? You lied right out the gate when you introduced us!”

Daichi laughed again. “Nope, I said you were my  _ partner _ ,” he emphasized the word. “I never once said you were a detective, just that you were my partner. Which is true, we’re life partners.”

Suga squinted again. “Okay, fine, that’s pretty clever. What about the phone records?” 

“Phone records are all real. As soon as Oikawa woke up, I told him I needed permission to have his phone records, which he called the cell phone provider and they emailed to him right away. Oikawa forwarded the email to me, which I had printed at the station and then delivered to me via squad car along with the borrowed suit you’re wearing.” Daichi’s explanation felt like Suga was living in a heist movie. “And don’t play too innocent on me, I heard all that ‘our department’ stuff you were spewing, as if you weren’t referring to the nursing department.” 

Suga couldn’t help but chuckle. Maybe he  _ did _ pick up on a few things in all of those late night study sessions together in college. “Okay, but how did you know to do all of that?” he asked, more curious now than concerned. 

“Ushijima told me in the lobby about the guy he punched and why exactly he punched him. The man might be a brute on the court, but he wouldn’t snap and resort to violence without just cause,” Daichi reasoned with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“It seems like this Tono guy has been harassing Oikawa for quite some time, making his life a living hell,” he continued. “Now, I know Oikawa did a fair share of illegal things himself, but nothing compared to the rap sheet that asshole has collected.” Suga hummed in agreement, burying his face in Daichi’s chest. “I knew, based on the immediate phone records, that Tono found out about Oikawa being admitted to the hospital and was planning on coming here. Tono found out through the agency that Oikawa was hospitalized and from the sounds of the texts, Hiyori was coming up here to take advantage of the situation and coherence and blackmail Oikawa into leaving Ushijima and returning to him.”

“What a psycho!” Suga exclaimed, shaking his head. 

“Right?” Daichi kissed the crown of Suga’s silver head. “The man’s a coward and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would cave under pressure. Pieces of shit like that are so easy to read and even easier to crack. Anyone who engages in domestic violence like that is worthless.”

“You’re amazing, Dai. Really.” Daichi hugged his husband tighter, obviously appreciative of the compliment. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand,” Suga said, pulling away a little so he could look up at his husband’s dark features.

“And what is that?” the detective inquired, arching a dark eyebrow.

“Why exactly did you need me to come along for this? I think you more than had it under control, especially when you didn’t make me privy to any of this information before walking in!”

The former Karasuno captain laughed so hard that his eyes closed and his nose crinkled. “That’s an easy answer!” Suga glared harder. “How else would you get to see first-hand how hot I am when I do detective work?!”

“I hate you,” Suga deadpanned as he pulled away from Daichi’s warm embrace. “I seriously can’t stand you.”

“Thanks for arranging the room, honey! I couldn’t have done this without a private room and I really couldn’t have done it at the station.”

Suga shook his head again as he made his way to the door. “I’m changing out of this monkey suit and going home.”

Daichi followed, taking the silver-haired setter’s hand in his. “I’m coming with you.”

Suga laughed, then sighed, before resting his head on Daichi’s shoulder. “Let’s go see our baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay so I hope this happy brought you guys a little happy, too.
> 
> A few things I want to touch on:
> 
> 1.) I know this chapter lacked any Ushijima / Oikawa interaction, and I'm sorry, but there will be plenty of that next chapter.  
> 2.) Iwa-chan isn't coming back into Oikawa's life as a main player, I think they've accepted where they are in their lives now and are willing to be and stay the people they have become while apart. That doesn't mean they won't have anything to do with each other, but I will touch on that more down the road. There is definitely no love triangle business going on in this fic.  
> 3.) Again, this was DaiSuga heavy, but I couldn't help using this dynamic duo as a way to rid Hyori from UshiOi's lives, at least for the most part. Obviously, Hyori's abuse will have lasting repercussions and his name will probably come up again, but yeah. No spoilers here.  
> 4.) I hope you guys really enjoyed this chapter! Again, we are nowhere near done, but I guess you could say we are kind of closing the 'Oikawa's spiral' arc of this story and now we get to head down the road to recovery, which will have it's own challenges and fluff and smut and figuring out and more training for the Olympics and surprises. I can't wait for you to see it all unfold.  
> 5.) FINAL THING I'M SO SORRY LOL - I just wanted to say I can't believe how many comments and kudos I've gotten. It's really the only reason I have been able to keep with this fic so consistently and you are all so encouraging. Please please please continue to comment and let me know what you think, it's the only way I get better! Love you all so much! See you next week! :) (if not this weekend if I am feeling hype about it lol!)


	9. Feel Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy :)

“I want to go home, Suga-chan.”

The silver-haired nurse chuckled, amused at Oikawa’s low whine, the setter folding his arms across his chest in an aggravated huff. “I know you do, but we’re just waiting on the last of the paperwork to come through.”

Oikawa sighed and rested his head back on the pillow. It was now Wednesday, and while he had been medically cleared to go home, he was awaiting the results of his mandatory psych eval before he could be released. His attending physician had insisted that it be done prior to his release given his emotional state leading up to the overdose. 

“I know, I’m just bored. I thought Ushiwaka-chan would spend more time with me,” he admitted tersely, jutting out his lower lip in a dramatic pout.

Suga gave the patient a sweet smile. “Here, I brought you a pudding cup.” He placed the dessert on Oikawa’s bedside tray. The model eyed it for a moment before taking a quick sigh and then opening it. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled as he fumbled with the foil lid.

“You’re welcome,” Suga said, lowering himself in the chair beside the bed. “And I know Ushijima wants to be here more, but he has been busy with practice and doing some... cleanup work, shall we say. Kiyoko is busting his ass and making him sign up for charity work and such to help with the PR. And trust me when I tell you that woman is small but  _ terrifying _ .” Suga ran a hand through his silken hair. 

“Just because Hyori didn’t end up filing charges, doesn’t mean aren’t things he needs to do. There were still a lot of witnesses,” he clarified, trying to be as delicate as possible. He didn’t want to make Oikawa feel any worse than he already did about the whole ordeal. 

Oikawa lowered his hazel eyes and he thumbed the handle of his plastic spoon thoughtfully. He was already halfway through his chocolate pudding. “I know,” he whispered.

“Now, don’t get to feeling sad!” Suga’s voice was lighthearted and sweet. “Look at all the gifts he’s brought you!” 

It was true, Ushijima had spoiled him. On top of all the packages of milk bread that the ace had delivered with each visit, on his bed with him was a small alien stuffed toy, curled up under the crook of his arm. A large bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the table by the television, composed of white calla lilies, purple dame’s rocket, and blue forget-me-nots. “They’re beautiful, but even I have to admit, that’s a rather strange arrangement.” Oikawa used his spoon to gesture at the flowers. 

“Are you not familiar with the language of flowers, Tooru?” Suga asked slyly, raising a gray eyebrow curiously on his head. 

Oikawa scrunched his face. “That language of… what?” 

“Flowers. It would appear that our sweet Wakatoshi knows a thing or two about plants…” 

“So what, these flowers symbolize something?” Oikawa asked, bringing his eyes back to the cold-toned bouquet. 

“They sure do. Do you see the two-toned purple ones that are kind of small? They are symbolic of ‘rivalry’.”

The setter snorted a laugh, quickly bringing his hand to cover his mouth, trying to mask the noise. “No, it does not!” He insisted, waving his other hand flippantly. “There’s no way.”

Suga rolled his eyes. “Yes, it sure does! And the white calla lilies? Those mean ‘beauty’.” The ashed blond watched Oikawa’s reaction to that comment and smiled when he saw the setter’s blush, his cheeks turning a warm scarlet. “And then lastly, we have the blue forget-me-nots.”

“What do those mean?” Oikawa asked anxiously, leaning forward in his bed to watch the bouquet intently, as if it were seeing it for the first time.

“True love.”

Oikawa’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed heavily. He brought his knees under his chin, resting his cheek on the starchy white blanket. His expression was soft, thoughtful, his stare locked on the floral arrangement, but his mind seemed far away. 

“Do you think he’s a good man?” It was Oikawa’s voice that broke the long silence, his words barely above a whisper. 

Suga leaned forward and rested his pointed chin in his palm. “I think he’s one of the best, Tooru.” He smiled sweetly before adding, “of course,  _ I  _ married the best there is, but Ushijima is a close second.” The brunette rolled his eyes but the smile never left his face, his pink lips pursed in a gentle grin. 

“So have you figured out what to do about your apartment?” Suga asked, leaning back heavily in the chair. He was on his break, and he had made it a habit to spend every single one with Oikawa.

“Yeah…” Oikawa started, but his voice trailed off a little bit. His stare was back on the bouquet.

“Yeah?” Suga pried curiously.

“I’m gonna find a subletter… and stay with Wakatoshi for a little bit. You know, since I’m not working anymore.” Oikawa swallowed thickly and folded his hands in his lap over the blanket. “It’s temporary though,” he added for good measure.

The nurse just smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Sure, I understand. We’ve been to Ushijima’s, he’s got the space. I think it’s a three-bedroom?”

Oikawa just nodded, taking a quick moment before he spoke again. “It still doesn’t feel like Hyori is gone for good.” That statement should have been more difficult to spit out, but it wasn’t. It rolled from his tongue casually instead of sticking in his throat like he thought it would. Oikawa couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Suga leaned forward in his seat and stretched out a hand, placing it comfortingly on Oikawa’s forearm, still adorned with his intake bracelet. “Tooru, look at me,” he instructed gently, watching closely as the model raised his large eyes, laced with the fear and uncertainty and anxiety that his voice had lacked. “Tooru, listen. Daichi, Ushijima, and I will do everything we can to keep that worthless piece of shit away from you.” His words were low and serious and so painstakingly out of character for the usually cheerful and positive man. “You have our word. Trust me, that douchebag has a lot to lose if he tries to come around again.”

Hazel eyes became glassy and a pitiful sob escaped Oikawa’s chest before he could catch it. “I’m just scared, Suga,” he admitted in a rare sheen on vulnerability. This was not the same Oikawa that Suga knew in high school, so proud and boisterous and commanding, overflowing with insistent charm and sass. No, this man here on the hospital bed was someone else entirely, just a shell of the aforementioned soul he had known before. 

“I know,” the nurse cooed, sliding his hand down to capture Tooru’s, squeezing it tightly. “I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling, sweetheart.”

Oikawa sniffled gently and brought his free hand to his cheek to wipe away the moisture that had pooled on his high cheekbones. “Suga, can you grab me that intake information form?”

Suga cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes questioningly. Before he could ask for clarification, the answer came.

“I want to change my emergency contact information.” 

\------------------------

The squeaking of shoes on the gym, the panting breaths, the calls for the ball hollered by energetic voices. These were the sounds that Ushijima lived for, the noises that grounded him. They were like an orchestra, playing songs that soothed his anxiety and lit a fire in his heart. Even if this was only a team scrimmage, it didn’t matter. This was therapy. 

“It’s coming to you, Captain!” Kageyama hollered, aligning himself under the colorful volleyball, nimble hands raised above his head, eager to send the ball above the net.

At the title, Ushijima readied himself, only to stagger in place. His heart lurched as he watched the ball get sent to Bokuto, who jumped and masterfully spiked it down, powerfully hurdling the ball toward the floor. He landed with a resounding cheer as Kuroo, who was playing on the other side of the net, lunged for the ball but narrowly missed it, the spike connecting with the hardwood.

“Shit!” the dark-haired former Nekoma captain hissed. “That was a nice kill, Bo.”

_ I’m not the Captain anymore. _

It was a resounding thought, a realization that he felt in the very marrow of his bones. He had been the captain of a team for so long, it felt strange to hear a teammate called one. 

Miya slapped Kuroo’s back, who had been acting as their team’s setter. “Don’t worry about it, bro. You might suck at receives, but at least you’re still handsome.”

Kuroo pushed himself off the floor and raised his golden, cat-like eyes to the blond. “You really think so?”

“Nope.”

Kageyama and Sakusa both doubled over with laughter, hands on their knees for support. Kuroo scrunched his nose in annoyance. “Rude!”

Ushijima wiped the sweat from his brow with a heavy forearm. That was match point, their scrimmage was over, their side walking away the victor. It had been a few days since coming back to practice after the events at the sponsorship party, and while Kiyoko and Coach had already given him their lectures and consequences (Ushijima had never run so many laps around the court in his life, almost vomiting at several points in his punishment), but being in the gym still didn’t feel quite right.

He had explained the situation to his closest teammates (leaving out  _ some _ details regarding exactly what happened with Oikawa after he left). He tried his best to clarify what happened with Hiyori, and a little bit about what exactly the former swimmer had done to Oikawa (again, leaving out the especially incriminating details.)

Bokuto was the most understanding, the kind-hearted man admitting he would have done the same for Akaashi, or anyone else he really cared about for that matter, had they been in the same situation - he would hurt whoever hurt one of his friends. Hinata was quick to agree, fired up with energetic heat and rigor at the prospect of defending his friends. 

While all of them were supportive, it was understandable to see a shift in their team dynamic, especially with Bokuto at the helm, though the white-haired man had vehemently tried to deny the position and insisted Ushijima keep his title, but the coach was adamant to uphold his decision. Everyone still respected Ushijima, but some of the players were still a little upset that the fight had cost their captain his title and created some unwanted, and unneeded, negative PR for the national team. 

“Good work today, Ushijima!” Hinata hollered, waving an excited hand at the large ace while the team disbursed under the dismissal from the coach. The brunette replied with a despondent grunt, bringing his golden-brown eyes to his black shoes as he beelined for the locker room. Many members of the team were standing around talking to the coach or each other, but a few of his teammates shuffled after Ushijima. The ace was ready to leave so he could go visit Oikawa, and finally, maybe, take him home.

“Are you going to visit Oikawa today?” Bokuto asked a little quietly, leaning into the ace as they walked, trying to keep his voice low.

“He visits him every day,” Kageyama added as he swept past the pair. “So, obviously.”

“Will he come home today?” Kuroo asked as he propped open the door of the locker room, politely ushering his teammates inside.

“Maybe,” the ace deadpanned as he approached his locker and pealed his sweaty practice jersey from his body. 

“Is he coming to stay with you? Or…?” Bokuto’s voice trailed off, eyeing the tall man carefully.

“He should,” Kuroo interjected as he opened his locker, rifling through his belongings, searching for his bag.

“Why do you say that?” The tone of Ushijima’s question caught the bystanders off guard, causing them to swallow deeply. It almost sounded defensive, and a bit angry. 

“I just think Tooru would be better off in your care. I don’t think you should trust him to stay at his place alone.” Kuroo shut his locker with a heavy clink of the metal. “He’s better off with you,” he repeated. “It’s a compliment, Ushijima. So take it.”

Goosebumps rippled on the bare skin of Ushijima’s toned back. They had actually had the conversation the second night in the hospital when Ushijima arrived with the bouquet, coming into Oikawa’s room late after practice only to find Tooru asleep, curled up in the hospital bed. The Olympian couldn’t get over how fragile the model had looked, dressed in his teal hospital gown, the hem pulled up so high on his milk-white thighs as he napped, blanket kicked to his feet from his restless sleep. 

Ushijima had left the flowers at his bedside table and crouched next to him, pushing the chocolate locks away from his stunning face. “Stay with me,” Ushijima had stated in a breathless whisper, just low enough that he thought Oikawa hadn’t heard it in his slumber. So when Oikawa opened his sleepy eyes, reddened from the tears he had shed previously that afternoon, and gave a throaty, hoarse reply of ‘okay’, in return, Ushijima thought his heart would surely unravel at the seams. 

“Are you scared?” Kuroo asked, pulling Ushijima from his thoughts, the black-haired hitter taking a step closer to his former captain, golden eyes glistening with concern, but also something else, something a little more challenging and rougher around the edges. Something about the question was a bit sharp, so much so that it almost cut Ushijima as Kuroo uttered the words.

“Yes.”

Kuroo’s eyes widened at the admission, stealing a glance at Bokuto, who looked just as surprised. The new captain waved his hand, hurrying the stragglers in the locker room along. Ushijima didn’t say another word, only pulled a towel from his locker and made his way to the far shower stall, letting the glass door bounce with a resounding slam. 

Bokuto and Kuroo looked at each other once more, waiting to speak until they heard the faucet flip on and the water running in the shower. “We have to help him,” Bokuto spoke first. 

“Help him how?” Kuroo asked, sliding the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. “He probably already thinks he’s already fallen as far as he can at the moment since he’s no longer the captain.”

Bokuto scrunched his face a little, partly out of guilt. “I know, but I…” he let his voice trail off before picking up the thought again. “I feel like there is more to it.”

Kuroo raised his eyes to the far end of the locker room. “Yeah, there might be,” he admitted with a sigh.

“I’ve just never seen him lose his shit like that… I thought he was gonna kill the guy.” Bokuto ran a hand down the back of his spiked hair. “Like, that’s gotta shake a dude up a bit. If you hadn’t stepped in -”

Kuroo cut him off. “Ushijima is a good dude. He wouldn’t have taken it any further.”

Bokuto shook his head. “I don’t know… if it’s a lover’s thing like Sakusa guessed…” He cleared his throat. “I would have killed the guy for Akaashi.”

“Even if it was a one-sided love?”

The question caused Bokuto’s golden gaze to snap toward Kuroo’s face, the raven-haired hitter’s features focused on the back wall, eyes narrowed in concern. The sound of the shower cutting off forced a weak answer to rise from his chest. “Yes, even if it was one-sided.” 

\---------------------

“Oh my god, do you know how boring it’s been in here?!” Oikawa whined the second Ushijima walked in the room. Oikawa’s breath caught a little in his throat at how handsome the ace could look in just black Nike sweats and a thick red hoodie, golden-brown eyes a little tired, dark hair appearing just a little wet still at the tips, Oikawa assumed it was from his post-practice shower.

“Will you be discharged today?” Ushijima asked, deep voice warm and resonating throughout the otherwise cold and stale hospital room. The TV across from the bed was muted, but clearly playing some sort of American reality show.

“Ugh, I hope so!” Oikawa leaned back and slammed hard into the pillow behind him, clearly exasperated. “Suga-chan said the doctor would be by around 4, but it’s already like, 3:30!”

Ushijima assumed his normal spot beside Oikawa, sitting in the over-stuffed blue chair that was meant to be comfortable, but in reality, it wasn’t. It was stiff and cold and made of faux leather and always smelled like disinfectant. “Did Sugawara-san say if he was going to stop by as well?”

The former model sat up once more and nodded, thumbing at the hem of the blanket on his lap. “Yeah, he said he’d show me off.” Oikawa sighed and added, “but I guess that’s  _ if  _ they let me go home.”

Ushijima’s chest warmed at the word ‘home’. Over the past few days, the Olympian had been doing everything in his power to make sure that Oikawa was coming to stay in a place that was loving and welcome and safe, a place that didn’t trigger his need to use, a place that encouraged sobriety and fostered a sense of security within him. 

“I’m cold,” Oikawa pouted, pulling that same starchy white blanket up over himself. That damn thin teal hospital gown wasn’t doing Ushijima’s thoughts any favors, giving him glimpses of wide expanses of pale skin. 

He rose from the chair and reached around over his shoulder, fisting the back of his hoodie as he pulled it over himself. The sweatshirt grabbed his t-shirt, giving Oikawa a glance at the rock hard body beneath. Once it cleared his head, Ushijima smoothed his hair down and handed the red hoodie to Oikawa. “Here,” he said flatly, holding the garment in front of him.

“Oh?” he asked flirtatiously, pressing a slender hand to his chest as he fluttered his eyelashes. He extended his other hand and accepted the sweatshirt. “So manly and sweet of you, Ushiwaka-chan.” His tone was low and cool and suggestive. 

Ushijima’s face flushed with color and he took a hesitant step back. “It’s nothing,” he stated, folding his thick arms across his broad chest. 

Oikawa pulled the garment over his head and Ushijima watched as the smaller man seemed to be swallowed in the garment. He pulled the collar up around his face and took a deep whiff of the fabric. “It smells like you,” he whispered into the vermillion cotton, not bothering to bring his eyes to the Olympian. “I like the way you smell,” he explained, pulling his hands inside the sleeves, nimble fingers curling around their corded edges. “It’s a bit earthy with a hint of citrus.” 

Ushijima swallowed thickly and approached the hospital bed once more. He dipped down and captured Oikawa’s mouth in a gentle kiss, placing his powerful left hand on the setter’s cheek, the tips of his fingers grazing the feathery edges of chocolate brown hair. His heart raced as Oikawa sighed into the kiss, leaning closer, his own sleeved hand covering Ushijima’s. 

Ushijima couldn’t deny how sweet he tasted, just a bit somber and anxious, but otherwise, so, so sweet. It wasn’t the artificial, confectionery, bubbly flavor from the night of the party when his mouth was fruity and overwhelming with the taste of peaches and alcohol. This taste was all Oikawa, all-natural and unreserved, no veil of inebriation or questionable intentions as a barrier to hide behind. 

And Ushijima loved that taste.

“Well, I’m glad I’m the one who walked in first.” Suga’s familiar honey-warm voice washed over Ushijima as he hurried to separate himself from the patient, sputtering a little as he straightened to full height.

Oikawa chuckled, “I bet you were watching from the shadows, huh, you little perv?” He cocked a manicured eyebrow and cast a teasing look in the nurse’s direction. “Too bad you broke it up right as Ushiwaka-chan was gonna stick his hand up my hospital gown!”

“I wasn’t--” Ushijima was quick to defend himself, but was cut off once again by Suga’s laugh.

The silver-haired man brought a mocking hand to his eye, wiping away an invisible tear. “Ah, I’m sure sorry I missed that! Dai says we can’t have sex at the hospital anymore becau--”

It was the nurse’s turn to be cut off as his partner entered the room and set a heavy, warning hand on the dip between Suga’s neck and shoulder. “Sugawara, honey,” the police detective growled through clenched teeth, the pet name breathed with pure disdain, “I thought we discussed oversharing.”

“Oh please,” Suga latched onto the hand attached to his shoulder and casually brushed it off. “I’m not his actual like, assigned nurse, so it wouldn’t be unprofessional of me the share all the places we’ve banged inside this hospital.” He excitedly clapped his hands together, much to Oikawa’s amusement, as he began again. “Okay, so one time when I was a young little nurse working my first few shifts in the ER, Daichi was like,  _ obsessed _ with seeing my ass in scrubs. So anyway, I was on a really long shift and I had forgotten my lunch--”

“ _ Suga! _ ” Daichi yelled, clasping a quick hand over his partner’s mouth. “I think that’s enough of storytime for today.” No one missed the violent blush that colored his face.

“Knock, knock!” came the call from another, fifth voice as a tall, older man in a white coat entered the room. “How is our patient today?” The doctor asked as he made his way past Suga and Daichi. Daichi afforded his husband a silent death glare that only made the ashen-haired nurse giggle - he existed to rile up his oftentimes conservative partner.

“I am ready to go home,” Oikawa admitted with another whine. “I am, no offense Hashimoto Sensei,  _ very tired _ of being in this hospital.” 

The doctor chuckled as he approached Oikawa’s bed. He hadn’t needed an IV drip for about 24 hours, and his eating habits had been better, for the most part. Ushijima had to force him to eat real, substantial food, not just the packages of milk break he had been gifted. Though Suga didn’t help matters by bringing him an almost constant stream of pudding cups on his breaks. 

“Alright, I spoke with the psychiatrist who helped you yesterday,” Hashimoto began, turning to eye the small audience, “and I would just like to have a short conversation before signing your release papers.”

Oikawa brought his eyes to the trio of men at the foot of his bed. “Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee?” Suga offered, clearly reading the room. 

“Right, hospital coffee,” Daichi joked as he turned toward the door, “my favorite.”

“Hey now!” Suga was quick to defend himself. “We’re nurses, not baristas.”

Ushijima gave one long look back at Oikawa before he followed the couple. The brunette setter gave him a flirtatious wink that Ushijima was not wholly expecting to shake him in such a resounding way. The small gesture sent an electric wave through his stomach, pooling it in his chest. 

“Wakatoshi, how do you like your coffee?” Suga asked as they snaked back down the hall toward the nurse’s station. 

“Black,” the ace answered flatly, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

“Daichi does too!” He flashed his million-dollar grin backward at his partner.

“I don’t  _ like  _ it plain black,” Daichi explained, “I’m just a very busy homicide detective and it feels wrong showing up to a crime scene with a caramel frappuccino.” 

“Yo, Yukki-san, can we have three of your famous coffees?” Suga cooed as he approached the horseshoe-shaped desk at the end of the hall. A middle-aged woman with steel-blue eyes threw him an annoyed look.

“Suga-san, you know this isn’t Starbucks, right?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest, a black clipboard gripped tightly in one hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” Suga waved his hand. “Then stop making such  _ excellent _ coffee.” He batted his long eyelashes at her and the woman appeared to instantly cave.

“ _ Fine _ ,” she huffed, trying to harden herself once again. “Just help yourself. I have rounds to make.” She shot him an icy look that only caused the former vice-captain to chuckle, “ _ some  _ of us have jobs to do.” With that, she turned on her heel and headed down the hallway. 

Suga dipped behind the counter and poured them three styrofoam cups of coffee. He handed two over as they were - plain, dark, and bitter. He went to work on his, shredding sugar packets as he added them to his own cup. Daichi rolled his eyes but also wore an amused smirk - there was no changing his husband. 

“So, are you ready to bring Oikawa home?” Suga asked as he stirred his coffee with a little plastic stick. 

“I am,” Ushijima replied, bringing the hot liquid close to his lips in hopes that it would warm him a little. He was admittedly a bit cold after surrendering his hoodie to Oikawa.

“Here,” Suga stated, fishing a neatly folded square of paper from his scrubs pants pocket. “You’re gonna need this.”

Ushijima raised a curious eyebrow but accepted the paper, setting his coffee on the ledge of the counter as he unfolded it. 

“It’s a list,” the fair-haired nurse explained. “Well, two lists, actually. The first list is for NA and AA groups that meet in a 15-20 minute radius of your apartment, and the different meeting times and dates. And the second list is for therapists in your part of the city who specialize in trauma and relationship abuse.” He reached out a slender hand and placed it carefully on Ushijima’s bare forearm. “He’s gonna need these things to stay better. But also, give him a little grace. It may take him several tries to find a group he really connects with. And you can go with him, whenever you want to NA and AA, just as a support system.” Suga gave a small smile. “You can always at least offer.”

The ace scanned the document, it was a comprehensive list with a lot of information. The recovery groups were organized by date and time, complete with addresses and contact numbers. “Thank you,” Ushijima whispered, quietly folding the list back up and sticking it inside of his wallet.

“Did you prep the house?” Daichi asked, taking a long sip of his coffee. 

“Prep?”

“Do you have any alcohol at your house?” the detective clarified.

Ushijima shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

Suga cleared his throat, stealing a glance at his husband. “And um, what about your medication? Is it locked up somewhere?”

Ushijima had admitted to Suga, upon Oikawa’s intake, about his issues with anxiety and just how Oikawa came to overdose on the medication. He hadn’t openly talked about his struggles with anyone except for his mom and of course Tendou, his best friend, and vice-captain while he was in high school. No one on the Olympic team even knew that he suffered from bouts of anxiety and panic attacks. He was able to mostly treat it with meditation and exercise, or by taking care of his plants and cleaning his house, but for the extreme nights, the long and lonely ones, when the inner-voice was exceptionally loud and adamant about tearing his every accomplishment apart, did he finally cave and use his prescription. He didn’t like how it made him feel - like nothing at all, so he tried to reserve it for emergencies only.

“I returned the remaining medication to the pharmacist. I won’t be renewing my prescription.” His matter-of-fact tone never wavered.

This comment caused Suga to send a concerned glance at Daichi, who returned his gaze. “Are you...” Suga’s voice trailed off a little. “Are you positive you’ll be okay without it?”

“Yes,” Ushijima nodded. “I am sure.” 

“Hell yeah!” Oikawa’s cheer interrupted them as he approached the trio, coming up the hallway. He was wearing the jeans that Ushijima had brought him, the oversized red hoodie looking even larger now that he was standing. He had a small bag slung over his shoulder and a small stack of discharge papers in his left hand. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand!” He gave a warm grin, the view causing Ushijima’s chest to heat up - this was the Oikawa he had always known. This cheery, bright man, hazel eyes crinkled in the corners with laugh lines, his chin tipped just a bit arrogantly in the air as he walked. 

“Let’s go home,” Ushijima offered lovingly, a warm lilt in his otherwise deep and even voice. 

Oikawa nodded, squeezing his discharge paperwork tight in his hand. “Let’s.”

\--------------------------

“I’m texting you the door code,” Ushijima explained, tapping on his phone. They were in the elevator of the ace’s building, ascending past floors to get to the penthouse level.

“Thank you,” Oikawa mumbled, fiddling with the strap of his duffel bag. While he was in the hospital, all he could think about was finally leaving. But now that he was here, on his way to  _ live  _ with his lifelong rival while maintaining his newfound sobriety… well, frankly, it made Oikawa want a drink. 

He was unemployed now, based on what Suga and Daichi had filled him in on. It was by Hiyori’s demand and he hated that the model got one last final say in his life before he dipped out of it. But if that helped rid him of the toxic bastard, he figured it was for the best. He would have to swallow his pride one last time and try to make strides for the better. That’s all he could do now.

The elevator chimed, indicating their arrival. The door slid open and the duo stepped out into the small hallway. Ushijima led them to his apartment door, where he punched in the numbers on the keypad and stepped inside. 

“Welcome home,” the ace offered Oikawa, leaning down and giving him a tender kiss in the corner of the shorter man’s mouth.

“Thank you, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa smiled shyly, looking up at the Olympian through long, thick lashes.

“I have set up the guest room for you,” Ushijima explained as they made their way further into the apartment. “We can go get the rest of your stuff from your place this weekend if you want. There is plenty of space in that room.”

_ Guest room?  _ Oikawa repeated in his head as he followed the ace. Was Ushijima just being respectful of his boundaries and space? 

“Here,” Ushijima opened the door across the hall from the master suite. “I only had a few things stored in here, but I have relocated them.”

Oikawa stepped into the guest room. It was smaller than Ushijima’s master bedroom, but it was still large, the walls painted a warm sandy brown. The large queen bed and rug boasted soothing earth tones. The picture window above the bed gave a brilliant view of Tokyo below, the city lights twinkling in the early winter twilight. 

“This is nice, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa admitted, lowering himself onto the bed and running his hands over the soft fleece comforter. 

“You can use the master bath any time you like, or there is the main bathroom off of the living room. Whichever is fine.” 

The ace leaned in the doorway and folded his arms across his chest, watching the former setter carefully. His cheeks were red, but from the cold air when they got out of the taxi or from mild embarrassment, Ushijima wasn’t sure. The brunette pulled his duffel to his chest. 

“Thank you,” he whispered again. 

“There is something else.”

Oikawa jerked his head up and met the ace’s golden gaze. “Something else?” he repeated. 

“Yes,” Ushijima nodded. “I have made arrangements in the small interior bedroom.”

A chestnut eyebrow raised high on Oikawa’s forehead. “What, like a pleasure room?” he joked, a playfully sinister glint in his eyes.

Ignoring the crass comment, Ushijima continued. “I spoke to Iwaizumi in the hallway the day you were admitted.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Oikawa’s hazel eyes immediately darkened, his chest stricken with panic causing him to squeeze the bag tighter to himself. 

“He told me why you got into marketing in the first place, and how that kind of segued into your modeling career, though that occupation wasn’t your intention.” Ushijima took a step away from the threshold of the door but held out his hand back toward Oikawa. “He instructed me that I was to care for you and support you.”

The brunette cautiously eyed the outstretched hand, but then with a heavy breath, he stood and curled his long fingers around Ushijima’s palm. His heart pounded in his chest. What did the Olympian have up his sleeve?

The taller man walked back down the hallway, stopping at the interior door just before the opening into the living room. “Open it,” Ushijima instructed, voice quiet and commanding. 

Oikawa listened and obliged, turning the golden knob over and pushing the door open. He held his breath for a moment as Ushijima reached around him and flicked on the light switch. 

“W-What is this?” Oikawa stammered, bringing the tips of his fingers to his lips as he examined the room. It was relatively small and windowless, he assumed Ushijima had been using it as an office or perhaps an extra storage room. Along the back wall was a table lined with several plastic basins. Shelves rested above it, filled with chemicals of all kinds, arranged neatly with the labels facing out and above the shelf was a photography-safe red light. Jugs of distilled water sat beneath the table. To the right, there were several small metal cabinets. Oikawa took a step closer and opened the cabinet and revealed rows of film canisters, stacks of developing paper, and various other supplies he would need to make prints.

“Is this…” he was taking silent inventory of all of the supplies. “Is this a dark room?”

“Yes,” Ushijima nodded. “Iwaizumi told me that you enjoyed photography and that you wanted to have a photo gallery someday. He also said that you preferred film cameras to digital. I was using this room for storage, so I decided to renovate it.” He cleared his throat nervously as he watched tears well in Oikawa’s eyes. “You can use it as you please.”

The brunette brought a trembling hand to his eyes, trying to force the moisture to stay where it was and not run rampant down his face. “Ushi...” he whispered breathlessly, the name catching heavily in his throat. “Ushi you didn’t have to do this,” he sobbed as leaned against the cabinet, moving his forearm to press it over the top half of his face - he didn’t want the ace to see him cry anymore.

Ushijima took a step further into the small room and wrapped his arms around Oikawa’s trembling shoulders. “I would do anything for you,” he whispered into the soft chestnut locks. The setter buried his tear-stained face into the crook of Ushijima’s neck, unable to control his sobbing.

“I did not mean to make you sad,” Ushijima explained apologetically, running his large hands down Oikawa’s back.

The smaller man shook his head softly. “I’m not sad,” he croaked, voice hoarse and muffled in the fabric of Ushijima’s shirt. 

Ushijima pulled away and placed a hand on either side of Oikawa’s weeping face, comfortably cradling it in his palms as he wiped a thumb across the setter’s high cheekbone, catching a tear as it fell. “What is it?” he whispered, breath hot on the bridge of Oikawa’s sleek nose.

An electric smile beamed across his handsome face suddenly, highlighting his best features, igniting his irises with rich color, muting the weight of his tears. 

“I can just feel again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the 8-day gap in between chapters. I know that's not a lot, but for me it is lol. I just have been super busy and a little tired and also I've spent a lot of time reading 'MooIfYou'reCows' work because she's fantastic.  
> Anyway, why is a little fluff harder than smut sometimes? Jeeze.  
> Thank you for all of your kind comments and kudos! I can't wait for us to watch these two tall idiots fall in love. I know not a lot substantial happened in this chapter, but it meant a lot when I wrote it.
> 
> Next time: therapy
> 
> Sidebar: I have a domestic AU DaiSuga planned out after I complete this one. And I *have* to complete this one because one, y'all are awesome, and two, I am so ADD when it comes to my writing that I start stuff and then I lose momentum and don't finish it and then I come back and start something new and that's basically the story of every single OG story I've ever written. Anyway, would y'all be interested in a DaiSuga from me? Let me know!!


	10. Vulnerability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I hope y'all like this chapter. I am in my feelz.

“Hello, my name is Oikawa Tooru, and I am in recovery.” The tall, slender man offered a slight bow to the small ring of colleagues who murmured their ‘welcome’ in return.

Oikawa lowered himself back into his metal chair, the cold steel tethering him to reality. This meeting was much like the ones he had gone to for Iwaizumi, a ring of recovery huddled together in some tiled room in a church or public activity center, complete with burnt coffee, lifeless handouts, and sniffling patrons. 

Yes, now that he thought more about it, gripping his own brochure that he had read through a hundred times (it hadn’t changed much in the last four years, if at all), he realized he was right - he had gone through this song and dance before  _ for  _ Iwaizumi, but never once for himself. Would it be different this time?

“Thank you, Oikawa-san,” a woman acknowledged, giving the newcomer a slight bow as she rose. “Who would like to share first now that all of the introductions have been made?” The speaker was a soft, short woman, with dark, curly hair that reached to her mid-back. She was dressed in gray slacks and an oversized powder blue cable knit sweater.

Oikawa’s eyes flitted back to the pamphlet that was now crinkling beneath the pressure of his curled fingertips. He let out a discontented sigh as an older man started speaking, sharing some story of his week, talking about how a scenario at work really made him want to drink, but he had to remember ‘the process’. The longer he spoke, the less Oikawa listened, staring unseeing at what was now a crumpled ball of paper material in his fist.

The last week at Ushijima’s had been different than what he was expecting, though in reality, he wasn’t sure what he was actually expecting. Ushijima was an early riser and it was obvious to Oikawa that the man had a routine: up before dawn to exercise, which either included a long outdoor run or extended use of the apartment complex’s gym facilities. Then he came in, showered, and made a healthy breakfast that was set on the table promptly by 8:30 each morning, which was usually when he woke Oikawa up before he left for practice and his mandatory volunteer work. 

Oikawa had been staying in the guest room, per the prompting Ushijima had set up the first night. He had busied himself with getting acquainted with his new film camera and darkroom, wandering outside in the warmest part of the day to take test shots of buildings and the foliage at the park down the road. So far, he wasn’t happy with any of his work, but he tried to give himself grace - he had never used this particular camera before, and his skills were a bit rusty from being out of practice.

“Oikawa," the ace would greet him each morning, pushing his messy bedhead away from his face, “breakfast is ready.” When Oikawa would groan and huff under the fleece blanket, Ushijima would kiss him somewhere innocently, but never on the lips: the corner of his eye, his cheek, his forehead. The gesture always caused Oikawa’s heart flutter and his desire to swell for the wing spiker, but Ushijima didn’t push it any further. Oikawa couldn’t get over how cold and lonely the guest bed felt.

Ushijima had even accompanied him to his old studio apartment to collect his things a few days ago, though Oikawa didn’t have much. He had even less by the time he tore up everything Hyori had given him over their time together. He had angrily ripped up designer shirts, slammed an expensive platinum watch against the wall, and threw away overpriced, meaningless handbags. Ushijima had watched it all with wide, golden eyes, a supportive standby as Oikawa held the fabric remains of clothes in his hands, angry tears cascading down his face.

Then, when he was done, Ushijima carried his boxes down to the small truck they had rented, and that was it. By the time they made it back to Ushijima’s highrise, Oikawa was asleep in the passenger seat, resting his cheek against his propped fist as he dozed, utterly drained from the emotional rollercoaster that was cleaning out his apartment.

But if he was being totally honest with himself, it was the emotional roller coaster of the last four years that had left him helplessly exhausted.

“Oikawa-san?”

The setter raised his hazel eyes, suddenly aware that his name had been called several times. 

“Oikawa-san, would you like to share today?”

The brunette sat up a little straighter in his chair only to see twelve faces staring back at him, the group wholly focused on his reply. He swallowed deeply, anxiously running a lithe hand through his chestnut locks. “I don’t,” he stated, though his voice came out a bit hoarse and rough around the edges. 

“Would you like to share how many days you have clean at least?” the woman, the group leader, prompted, her green eyes soft.

Oikawa paused for a moment, blinking slowly, trying to conjure his thoughts into something coherent. What day was it today? Friday? Saturday? No, it was Sunday again, Ushijima hadn’t gone to practice today. “Umm,” he stalled for a moment, acutely aware of the pairs of eyes on him. “A week today.”

This earned him a startling round of applause, causing him to flinch in his seat. 

“Oikawa-san, would you like your sobriety coin?” Oikawa wished he could remember her name when she introduced herself at the beginning of group so he could properly thank her, but only nodded softly, folding his hands together in a gesture of gratitude. 

The woman opened her small handbag and procured a manilla envelope of he could only guess was filled with various milestone tokens. She rummaged for a moment before producing a small silver token and handed it over to Oikawa, who stared down at the shining medallion. 

“Congratulations on a week, Oikawa-san. May your journey through recovery afford you many more milestones.” His hazel gaze met her stark green one, pooled with warmth and compassion. 

“Thank you,” he whispered again, curling the token in one hand and the crumpled brochure in the other.

“Does anyone else have a milestone they would like to share today?” the group leader continued. A few others raised their hands and shared, followed by soft congratulatory applause, the woman handing out the appropriate tokens. Oikawa wasn’t paying close attention to what was happening around him, his attention was mostly focused on the small, silver coin that felt like it was burning a hole through his palm.

The class must have ended based on the sounds of chairs scraping across tile and the low chatter of conversation, pulling Oikawa from his thoughts. He rose from his spot and shoved the token in his jeans pocket, brushing the pack of cigarettes he stored there. 

“Oikawa-san, it was nice to have you in group today.” The group leader was in front of him again, a genuine warmth radiating from her expression.

“Oh, thank you,” he said again. “I know I didn’t contribute much…” 

The woman smiled, shaking her head. “You don’t have to, especially not at first. The last thing we want is for this place to be overwhelming. You are always welcome to just come and listen,” she offered. 

“I will keep that in mind,” he said simply. “Well, I best be on my way.”

“Will we see you next week, Oikawa-san?” 

The model nodded gently, running a hand down the back of his neck. “I hope so,” he replied honestly.

“We hope so, too.”

Oikawa turned, heading toward the exit. He pulled his hoodie closer to his body, knowing full well the sun had set and it was very cold. It was Ushijima’s red hoodie, the one the ace had given him at the hospital. Oikawa took a deep breath - Ushijima’s scent was fading. 

Pushing through the metal door, Oikawa stepped out into the dark street, the winter wind catching in his lungs and brushing along the supple skin of his cheek. He sighed at the sensation, another subtle reminder that he was alive and sober.

“Oikawa,” called Ushijima’s deep, familiar timbre. 

Oikawa turned his head, watching as the wing spiker approached up the sidewalk. He was dressed in dark jeans that clung tightly to his powerful legs, and he wore a heavy blue coat, zipped up to his chest. Over his cropped hair he wore a gray knit cap that somehow pulled the gold flecks from his eyes, even in the dark lowlight of the orange street lamps. 

Oikawa was surprised to see him. The small community center was off of the main roads, nestled two train stops away from the ritzy highrise they now shared. “Ushiwaka-chan?” the setter greeted, a quizzical look on his face. “I told you not to pick me up today.” He was doing his best to sound annoyed, though his heart swelled at seeing the effort the tall man had made. 

“It is fine,” Ushijima insisted, positioning himself to stand beside the setter. Oikawa could feel that the air felt awkward, as it sometimes did with Ushijima. The brunette couldn’t help wonder if the stoic giant was teetering on what to do or say next. He looked a bit restless like he was deciding whether or not to embrace Oikawa.

Oikawa removed the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping it listlessly against the palm of his hand. He pulled a long menthol from the packaging and brought it to his lips. He continued to fish for a lighter, clicking it a few times until it sparked.

“How was your first group?” Ushijima asked, keeping his wide stance next to the setter, who now was taking a long drag before blowing the smoke into the chilly night air.

“It was fine,” he stated flatly, closing his hazel eyes before taking another burning drag. 

“Did you make friends?” 

This question caused Oikawa to sputter, giving a humorous laugh. “Friends?” he parrotted, waving his free hand dismissively. “No one wants to be friends with each other there.”

Ushijima hummed at the comment, keeping his golden gaze fixed on the perfect, pink lips that wrapped around the orange filter of the cigarette. Suddenly, his heavy winter coat felt just a little too warm even against the frigid January air. “Did it help?” 

Oikawa kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, sucking on his cigarette, enjoying the burn that tore through his throat and lungs. “I got a coin,” he replied finally, bringing his eyes to meet Ushijima’s. He produced the silver token from his pocket and rolled it through his fingers before clinching it between his first and second knuckles and holding it up for the wing spiker to admire.

“A coin?” Ushijima furrowed his dark brows, reaching out to retrieve the pendant. He turned it over in his hand, reading the words marked there - ‘One Week Clean and Sober’. 

“It’s like a participation trophy for trying to be sober,” Oikawa explained in a passive manner, scrunching his nose at the trinket. “I collected quite a few the first go around, but they seem strikingly less significant now.” He flicked the ash building up at the end of his near-finished cigarette.

“Does winning the same tournament two years in a row feel less significant the second time?” Ushijima asked, his voice heavy and low. 

Oikawa froze at the question, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. He had never thought about it that way, not once. He only looked at starting over as a failure, that the milestones didn’t matter, at least not until he surpassed his last achieved one. “I guess not…” 

Ushijima held the token out, presenting it once more to the shorter man to his right. “If it has meaning to you, then treat it as such,” the ace suggested, his tone sincere. “It might seem small, but a small trophy is still a trophy.”

Oikawa dropped the cigarette, snubbing it out with toe of his athletic shoe before turning and taking the coin back - this time, it felt much heavier in his hand, the weight of it almost unbearable now that its significance was brought to light.

“Are you hungry?” the ace asked, watching closely as Oikawa lifted his eyes from his palm and brought them to rest on his face. 

“Yeah, actually.”

Ushijima reached out his hand, extending it in Oikawa’s direction. “I brought my car… it’s too cold for you to take the train this late.”

The shorter brunette hurried to stuff the trinket back into his pants pocket before taking Ushijima’s hand, his face warming with something akin to humility. “You have a car?” he asked, sliding his long, nimble fingers between Ushijima’s thick, powerful ones.

“Yes.”

“Since when? We  _ always _ take a taxi or the train!” Oikawa let out a playful whine, which caused a near-smitten smirk to form on the taller man’s face.

“I bought it as a college graduation present to myself,” he explained, guiding the pair toward the end of the street. “I leave it parked at the garage adjacent to the apartment complex. I only take it out as needed.”

“And today was needed?” Oikawa pried, his face flashing with a teasing grin.

Ushijima retrieved the keys from his coat pocket, hitting the key fob. Oikawa blinked as the unlock lights flashed on the jet black car before them - he almost hadn’t seen it on the street.

“This… is  _ yours _ ?” Oikawa inquired, gesturing to the sleek vehicle in front of them. He had seen Hyori drive off in a number of expensive cars, the balance in his bank account seemingly endless. But  _ this _ ...

“Yes.”

“This is a Mercedes Maybach.” Oikawa couldn’t help - he just couldn’t wipe away the look of utter disbelief on his face. 

“Yes,” he repeated, releasing Oikawa’s hand as he made his way to the driver’s door. Upon opening it, the dome light came on, revealing all-black leather interior and polished chrome accents. 

Oikawa gingerly opened the heavy passenger door before sliding into his seat. With wide hazel eyes, he admired everything about it. The man had a nice apartment, no lie, but everything about it was minimalistic and simple. Ushijima had always struck him as a straight-forward man who kept a routine and never needed anything ‘extra’. “Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa whispered, though he wasn’t sure why, “do you know how expensive this car is?”

That comment caused Ushijima to chuckle, a small but genuine laugh. “Yes, Oikawa, I remember how much my car cost.” He was putting on his seatbelt now which prompted Oikawa to do the same. The setter didn’t reply, only sat in wonderment as the sleek Mercedes pulled away from the curb and onto the road.

It was a Sunday evening, the area sparse of traffic as they seemed to float across the black pavement. Oikawa felt like he was sitting in the world’s quietest spaceship as they passed buildings and lights. He kept his hands folded in his lap as he eyed the driver, one of Ushijima’s strong hands on the wheel, the other casually resting on the gear shift, even though it was an automatic. It was then that Ushijima rolled his palm over and spread out his fingers. Though his eyes never left the road, Oikawa knew what he was offering. With a shy smile, his hand met Ushijima’s, fingers lacing together. 

\-----------

“We drove thirty minutes in your 18 million yen car, late in the evening, just to come to a ramen shop?” Oikawa asked as he stepped out of the comfortably warm car and back into the cold night air. 

Ushijima nodded, shutting his door and locking the car with a quick flick of his wrist on the remote. “Yes.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes, only a little grumpy from hunger. “Seems a bit extravagant…” he muttered. 

Ushijima approached the building, which Oikawa thought looked relatively modern and sort of upscale. He felt a bit underdressed in his jeans and Ushijima’s oversized hoodie, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too much since the ace was dressed mostly the same. Oikawa didn’t have many dress clothes at the moment anyway, not since his display of aggression while packing up his old apartment. 

The olympian propped the door, holding it for Oikawa as he took a step inside. His first impression had been right - it was an upscale place, the color scheme a monochromatic black and gray, with the only flare being deep purple light fixtures that hung over the square, geometric tables. 

Ushijima placed a hand on the small of Oikawa’s back, prompting him as they took a step further into the restaurant. Oikawa scrunched his eyebrows. Wait, where were the patrons?

“Ahh, Ushiwaka~! Is that you?” Oikawa couldn’t place the almost cheerful voice that rose from somewhere behind the half wall of the counter. It sounded so familiar…

Suddenly, a shock of red hair poked up as the speaker stood to full height, menus tucked between his narrow chest and folded, lanky arms. A flood of memories came back to Oikawa upon seeing the speaker’s face.

“Tendou, it looks like the remodel is complete,” Ushijima commented, taking a step closer to the counter, hand never leaving Oikawa’s back. 

The red-head gave a large smile, one that caused his eyes to squint. “Yes!” he exclaimed, setting the menus down on the marble ledge. “Only a few more days until opening night!” 

Oikawa swallowed thickly - Tendou, that was his name. The hitter from Shiratorizowa who was quirky, quick on his feet, and from what Oikawa could remember - a bit mouthy.  _ The Guess Monster _ , they had dubbed him - a true yin to Ushijima’s yang. 

“It looks nice,” Ushijima acknowledged, taking another long look around the dining room. 

“Ah, you  _ did _ bring a guest, Ushiwaka,” Tendou acknowledged the setter finally, his narrow irises zeroing in on the former Seijou captain. 

“Tendou, you remember Oikawa.” The ace offered it as a statement, not a question.

“Quiet well, Waka.” A sly grin crossed the redhead’s face. “Have you come to dine in my humble part of Tokyo?”

Before Oikawa could bring himself to answer, Ushijima spoke again, this time, his words directed toward his companion. “Tendou is a chef and this is his new shop. He invited us to come by and sample some menu items before they were finalized.”

“I told you to bring a  _ date _ , captain. But by the looks, I suppose you listened for once.” His features softened a bit, if that was possible on his sharp, animated face. “Welcome, Oikawa-san.”

“Thank you,” Tooru offered, finally speaking. “Congratulations on your new business.” 

Tendou smiled and gestured toward the nearest booth. “You boys have a seat. Sake to celebrate?” 

“No!” The panic in Ushijima’s one-word reply caught the other two off guard. Oikawa stiffened before blushing deeply and turning his face away. Tendou narrowed his eyes in confusion. 

“Water then?” His two guests just nodded as they slid into the booth, sitting across from each other. “Okay, I’ll be right back with that and some samples I wanted you to try.” 

Oikawa rested his hands on the tabletop, his anxiety shooting up. He hadn’t expected to run into Tendou Satori of all people. He suddenly wished Ushijima had warned him…

“Satori is a great cook,” the ace explained, resting his hands on the black tabletop as well, only a few inches from Oikawa’s. 

“I wish you had warned me,” Oikawa blurted, neck feeling a bit warm. “I would have tried to make myself a little more presentable or…” He let his words trail off as his lips were met with a chaste meeting from Ushijima’s - their first actual kiss since he came home from the hospital.

“You look more than presentable, Oikawa,” he doted, the hot breath from his whisper ghosting the edges of the setter’s pink lips. His powerful left hand cupped Oikawa’s chin, his thumb and index finger moving to grip it gingerly. 

Oikawa’s eyes were half-lidded, enraptured completely by the simplest and sweetest of touches. “Kiss me again,” he pleaded, and when the spiker obliged and their mouths met once more, Oikawa couldn’t resist humming a small moan at the connection. 

“Jesus, get a room.” 

Tendou’s teasing broke up their kiss and Oikawa couldn’t help but curse the redhead a little in his mind. Why had Ushijima waited a week and in the presence of another person to finally make a move?

“Here, lovebirds,” Tendou stated, setting two glasses of water and a bowl of edamame in front of them. “I’m gonna go make you guys some ramen. Sit tight and don’t put anything in your mouths that isn’t food.” 

Oikawa laughed at that comment, despite the embarrassment he felt welling up within him. He looked up at Ushijima who seemed unphased by the teasing. 

The pair entered into a comfortable conversation, discussing Ushijima’s rigorous practices as well as his busy volunteer schedule, their hands still captured together. Kiyoko had put him up volunteering at a children’s home, teaching volleyball to the kids. This was profoundly outside his element, and he had to send several texts to Suga throughout the training sessions for direction on how to navigate their questions and handle their… well, immaturity. 

These were conversations they just hadn’t had at home, for whatever reason. It wasn’t like they didn’t eat breakfast together every day. While sometimes Ushijima was gone over dinner time, they still usually saw each other at least a few minutes a day. When they were alone at home, it was almost as if the wing spiker was avoiding him, busying himself with tidying the already clean house or excusing himself to do another session in the apartment gym. 

Before Oikawa could ask why this was, Tendou reappeared from the kitchen, half a dozen bowls balanced expertly on a black serving tray. The former vice-captain joined them in the booth, prompting them to try the different ramen flavors, taking meticulous notes on the feedback the duo gave. Oikawa’s was detailed and a bit dramatic, Ushijima’s was straightforward and to the point. 

“How is your hand, Ushi-waka?” Tendou asked his former captain as he began to collect the empty bowls. Confused silence followed, so the redhead elaborated, “I’m assuming better than that guy’s face.”

Oikawa snickered, though felt guilty in doing so. In fact, he still felt incredibly guilty about the whole scenario and couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that, despite what Daichi and Suga had repeatedly assured him, things with Hyori indeed weren’t over.

“Thank you for having us, Satori,” Ushijima stated, rising from the boot, intentionally ignoring the question. “We must get home to get some rest.”

“I understand. Thank you both for coming,” Tendou stated graciously, giving them a small bow. “I am thankful you took the time to come by.” 

“Your restaurant will surely be a success,” Oikawa offered. “We will come by and visit when it is open.”

“Sure, I would like that.” The redhead paused a moment before bringing his eyes up to his former captain. “Ushiwaka, can I borrow you for just a moment?”

Ushijima turned to Oikawa, who looked a bit sheepish. “Ah, I needed to smoke anyway. Now you won’t wait on me.” He gave one more nod of thanks before disappearing out the front door.

“Waka… is everything okay?” Satori asked, giving him dark, probing eyes. He stuck a hand on his hip as he did so. “You’re quite the talk in the group chat you so conveniently deleted yourself from.” 

Ushijima shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders. “Everything is fine, Tendou.” His deep deadpan was always a bit unnerving, even after all these years.

“I’ve heard rumors regarding your Great King,” Tendou added, nodding his head toward the door. “Talk among the old Seijo guys. Shirabu went to Iwaizumi Hajime’s wedding and apparently--”

Ushijima raised a hand, instantly silencing his old friend. “I am sure your commentary is well-intended, Satori, but I would request that you not elaborate further.”

The chef smirked as he raised a thin, red eyebrow high on his forehead. “I don’t mean to be such a gossip, Ushiwaka, truly,” he cooed, though it was sincere. “But I am a bit concerned. Did Oikawa have anything to do with the incident at the hotel?”

“Tendou, I will be taking my leave now,” the tall ace replied simply, voice even as he shouldered past his former teammate.

Satori’s face brightened once again, knowing full well that reply was answer enough. “I will see you around,  _ Pride of Japan _ !” he beckoned, Ushijima throwing him a small wave over his shoulder as he exited the shop.

He emerged outside to find Oikawa in a similar position he had been outside of the community center, slender frame propped up, leaning against the white stucco wall, cigarette balanced delicately between beautiful, slender fingers, hazel eyes fixed to the passing lully of traffic.

“Are you ready?” Ushijima asked, beckoning Oikawa from his listless reverie. He gave a small smile before giving the final flick to the ash of his cigarette. “Sure, let’s head home.”

\--------------

Oikawa had slept most of the car ride home, tired from group and the warm, delicious food they had enjoyed at the shop. It was scary how easy it felt simply enjoying a meal with his former rival, sitting across from each other in a low-lit shop, holding hands and stealing glances as if they were teenagers on a first date. The usually-stoic man had even afforded a small smile or two, coupled with genuine laughter. Everyone had always painted him as emotionless and robotic, but when it came down to it, his vulnerability and humanity was so easy to catch, if you were paying attention.

“Do you have practice tomorrow?” Oikawa asked as they walked through the threshold of their front door, toeing off their shoes in the process. He wiped a little of the sleep from his eyes. 

“Yes, but Coach has a meeting first, so we will just meet later in the day for drill practice and weights,” Ushijima explained, removing his coat to hang it on the hooks by the door. “I won’t leave the house until sometime after lunch, whenever Bokuto sends us a text.”

“Hmm,” Oikawa hummed, walking further into the apartment and into the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?” he offered, opening one of the pristine white cabinets.

“Yes, thank you.” Ushijima said. “I am going to take a shower.”

“Take your time,” Oikawa smiled, pulling down two tea bags. “It’ll take me a few minutes.”

The ace excused himself and disappeared down the hall while the brunette busied himself in the kitchen. He poured water into the heavy ceramic kettle before placing it on the stove. His eyes wandered to the little green, electronic numbers that glowed from the panel on the appliance, it was a little after 9 p.m. 

He leaned against the counter and pulled his phone from his pocket as he began to thumb through Instagram. He hadn’t posted a photo since the night of the party where he posed at the bar, a glass of red wine in hand that matched his maroon suit. The photo had collected comments that he knew better than to read through - he knew several would mention the incident with Hyori, and that was something he couldn’t bring himself to think about. 

His focus wasn’t on the comments, though. Instead, his eyes fixated on the glass of wine he was holding. Drinking wasn’t his problem, not as much as pills, but it still was enticing to think about and so, so easy to access…

He slammed his phone down on the dark countertop as the hiss of the tea kettle interrupted his spiralling thoughts. How long had he been staring at that photo? He huffed and shook his head - he needed to focus on a new task. He carefully lifted the hot kettle off of the stove and turned the burner off.

“What kind of tea are you making?” Ushijima asked, crossing into the kitchen. Oikawa lifted his eyes only to have his heart rate spike. 

The olympian was standing in their kitchen dressed only in a  _ very _ thin pair of athletic boxer briefs, the smoke gray material clinging like a second skin to his long, tan thighs, the fabric straining around defined muscle. He pulled the white towel from his neck and rubbed small circles into his wet hair, attempting to dry it a little. Random drops of water littered his chest and forearms, causing every plane and form of rigid muscle they touched to appear all the more godly and ethereal, as if attached to Adonis himself.

Suddenly, Oikawa was thankful he was no longer holding a very hot tea kettle as he leaned against the counter, clutching it for dear life, feeling as if the wind had been knocked from his sails.

“Oikawa?” asked Ushijima, taking another step closer to the brunette, placing a steadying hand on his narrow hip. Oikawa winced at the connection, suddenly his body feeling so sensitive to the touch. 

Oikawa lifted his eyes to meet the ace’s golden-brown gaze, the intensity of his eyes jarring, rattling, causing his very bones to quiver. The stare held so much in those irises, as if they were pools composed of pure precious metals, flecked with rich copper ore and rustic gold, brimming with something akin to concern, or lust, or love… Oikawa wasn’t sure if he could pinpoint it in his current mental state, but they were beautiful and authoritative and so all-consuming that he almost forgot how to breathe. 

He didn’t wait - didn’t hesitate. Not again, he couldn’t. 

Oikawa leaned forward and closed the gap between them, thinking of nothing other than the fire that threatened to burn down his very being from the inside out, every organ engulfed in passionate flames. His soft yet hungry mouth collided with the olympian’s in a wet, messy kiss - ravenous and searching, as if he was running out of time, as if this reality was hanging on the precipice of fantasy, and the only thing anchoring them to the white tiled kitchen floor was that single kiss.

Ushijima stuttered at first, eyes blowing wide at the connection. But as Oikawa’s tongue found his, he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around the narrow waist, securing the setter in place, pulling his taut hips flush to his. The excitement in Oikawa’s lower half was no secret to Ushijima, even through his jeans. 

Using a little more force than he meant to, he pushed the shorter man against the tall counter, causing the brunette’s breath to hitch at the collision. “Wakatoshi,” he whispered as their lips finally parted, peering up at the ace through thick, dark lashes, hazel eyes consumed with lust. “I want you.”

Ushijima didn’t reply, not with words - he wasn’t very good at those anyway. He was a man of action.

He instantly dropped to his knees, positioning himself in front of the model. His large, capable fingers set to work on the brass zipper of Oikawa’s jeans. Oikawa moaned as the ace pulled them down at a painfully slow pace. He repeated the sound, louder this time, as Ushijima’s thick dark lips kissed the pale flesh of his inner thigh before running a warm, heavy tongue along the milky, sensitive skin, licking a sizable stripe to the very edge of the black band of boxers that cut across the skin just below his hip bone. Impressive hands set to work in tandem, massaging the long, pretty thighs, working slow circles into the slender muscle. Ushijima lifted his gaze to catch the absolutely  _ wrecked _ expression on Oikawa’s face as he nuzzled his nose against the erection that looked so very strained against the dark synthetic fabric of the undergarment.

“You don’t have to-”, the setter hissed suddenly, his objection interrupted as he felt the hot, wet heat of Ushijima’s mouth press against his clothed member, Oikawa bringing a hand to his mouth to try to catch the illicit noise before it could pollute the air around them.

“What don’t I have to do?” Ushijima inquired, his voice as even and unfettered as ever as he curled his hands around the waistband of the black boxers, dragging them down the muscled legs until they met the jeans bunched at his ankles. 

Without reservation or further theatrics, Ushijima took the swelled erection into his mouth, humming as the organ immediately made contact with the back of his throat; the ace wasted no time in pleasing his partner. Oikawa instinctively bucked his hips forward as he threw his head back, not caring that it made a solid connection with the heavy cabinet door just behind him. 

“Ah -  _ fuck _ ,” he moaned, heat crawling up his body, reddening his otherwise pallid skin. “ _ Waka, _ ” he barely managed to push the first syllable of the ace’s name out before he began expertly bobbing his head, the heavy tongue methodically curling around the underside of his shaft. 

One hand fluttered to Ushijma’s hair, threading the olive brown locks between his lithe fingers, the other attempting to cover his trembling lips. His knees began to shake as he brought a heavy gaze down to the man kneeling before him. Ushijima was a formidable man, powerful, domineering, serious. On any given day, his presence demanded respect and rapt attention, his authority pouring from his deep, baritone voice all the way to his confident gait. But Oikawa couldn’t help but choke a little at just how damn vulnerable and even  _ submissive _ the ace looked from his current position: on his knees with a slender, flushed cock so lewdly buried in his eager and wet mouth. 

“Why have you been pushing me away?” Oikawa breathed through pangs of pleasure that tremored through his lower abdomen. His question wasn’t angry or malicious, instead, it was the opposite: pleading, laced with it’s own edge of apprehension and something reminiscent of pain.

Ushijima removed the occupying organ from his lips and met Oikawa’s half-lidded gaze. “I didn’t want to push you,” he whispered against the delicate flesh stretched across the divot of hip bone, before placing a chaste kiss at the junction. “I wanted to give you time.”

Oikawa pushed away the damp locks of hair that clung to the ace’s forehead, prompting his full attention. “Wakatoshi, I think I’ve had enough time.” He wasn’t a patient man, that was a cold hard fact. And his addiction had only fueled his need for gratification and validation. But in this case, when it came to Ushijima Wakatoshi, he had had enough time - the former setter had denied himself of this man, and everything he had to offer, for long enough.

Ushijima didn’t say another word as he rose to full height, shedding his inhibitions as he did so. He wrapped his arms around Oikawa and lifted him, capturing the setter’s mouth with his once more as he began to carry him back towards the master bedroom. Oikawa kicked his legs free of the garments still gathered at his feet, abandoning them somewhere in the dining room as they passed, before throwing his legs around the ace’s waist.

Exploring tongues and panting breaths occupied their quick journey into the master suite until Oikawa found himself falling into the warmth of the king-sized bed, his body bouncing slightly as it connected to the mattress. He let out a giggle at the action, his laughter warm on Ushijima’s lips, but even more so to his ears; what the ace wouldn’t give to bottle that sweet, earnest sound.

Ushijima pushed the setter’s t-shirt up, letting the fabric gather at his collarbone as he went to work, placing a trail of gentle, intentional kisses along the porcelain torso, moving up to catch a pink nipple in between his teeth. Oikawa whined at the action; a sharp, erotic noise escaping his throat. 

“Ah, ‘Toshi,  _ please _ ,” he begged through a wanton gasp, lifting his hips off the bed, pushing his erection against the ace’s broad chest. “Please take me.” Glassy, lust-filled eyes stared up at Ushijima through those fluttering, thick lashes he had come to adore; he knew he couldn’t deny his companion any longer. 

Ushijima climbed off the bed and removed his boxers before making his next motions quick and deliberate as he retrieved a small plastic bottle from the nightstand, not bothering to shut the drawer behind him. He situated himself between beautiful long legs, catching Oikawa’s ankle in his hand before dragging him across the gray bedspread so that his supple ass was positioned at the edge of the mattress.

Ushijima released his iron-clad hold, flipping the lid of the bottle open with a flourish and squirting the clear liquid into the palm of his hand before flippantly dropping it on the bed beside them. Oikawa watched, his heart hammering against his chest, as the tall man took his time to warm the lube between thick fingers before bringing them to tease the puckered ring of muscle that was so eagerly awaiting him. The setter keened at the sensation, taking in every one of Ushijima’s purposeful, gentle motions. 

One finger slowly disappeared inside of him -- he could feel as the calloused skin stimulated the smooth, delicate walls, only heightening the experience, luring him to a point that burned him, left him longing for more. “Another,” he instructed after just a few moments, his own hands buried in the cropped hair in front of him. “Please, another.”

Ushijima caught his own bottom lip between his teeth as he slowly gave the beautiful brunette what he so shamelessly begged for, a second, thick finger so graciously following the first. This caused Oikawa’s hips to rise once more, a chain of expletives leaving him as Ushijima curled his fingers inside, long capable fingers easily finding the bundle of nerves that he so recklessly pined for. 

“I’m ready,” he whispered out of sheer desperation, his loins screaming for  _ more _ . He needed absolutely  _ more _ and he knew that fingers, no matter how thick or skillful, would never get him where he wanted to be.

“No,” the deep timbre commanded. “You are not ready.” Before a protest could follow, a third digit occupied the space, knocking the objection clean from his mind. Slow, meticulous pumps followed, along with absolutely pleasurable scissoring; Oikawa felt like he was melting. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe these fingers  _ could _ get him there…

Before this theory could be proved, Ushijima slowed his thrusts. “Tooru,” he spoke low, above a whisper, but barely loud enough that Oikawa almost didn’t catch the question over the roaring in his ears. “Are you ready?”

In his state of near ecstacy, Oikawa wasn’t sure if his simple nod was enough of a gesture for the ace to get the idea, but when he felt the occupying fingers abandon the heat of his lower half, he figured his consent must have gotten across.

He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the thick cockhead press against the dripping, waiting hole. A cry left his throat as the feeling left his hands. He had been so close earlier that he wasn’t sure if he was going to last very long underneath the ace. 

A sweeping of soft kisses met the corner of his hazel eye, his flushed cheek, down to the edge of his pointed jaw, Ushijima drawing a map that only he could read as he sank farther into the setter, the entirety of his length moving so deliciously, painfully slow into the tight heat. Oikawa wasn’t sure what he heard over the white lightning that occupied his skull, but he could catch a few words that were muttered from swollen, dark lips:  _ beautiful. perfect. gorgeous.  _

_ Who was Ushijima describing?  _ The brunette couldn’t help but to wonder as he felt hips snap flush against the back of his thighs. “Ah,” they both moaned together, harmonizing their cries of unadulterated pleasure. 

Again, the snap came, harder this time, powerfully pressing against Oikawa’s prostate - the lightning in his vision melted into a solid field of stars, an apparition of white satisfaction consuming his every thought. 

Again and again the snaps came, the ace finding his rhythm, the once-languid pumps becoming less controlled as he, too, became completely absorbed by all that was Oikawa Tooru. He almost didn’t hear the request that came up to him, the hoarse whisper almost lost in the sea of moans.

“You can choke me,” Oikawa told him, moving to bring Ushijima’s left hand off the mattress and guiding it to the long, pale length of his neck. “You can hurt me.”

Ushijima growled, ripping his hand away. Oikawa blinked heavily, moisture clinging to the corner of his eyes before rolling down his high cheekbones. It wasn’t something he could control no matter how hard he tried; not his tears nor his comment. He didn’t know why he said it, he was never a masochist before Hyori... 

He winced as he prepared to receive some kind of repercussion, rolling his face away, body tensing. Hyori almost always hit him, even when he didn’t ask for it, even when he didn’t want it, even before he understood what it meant to be struck during intercourse. 

He wasn’t prepared, however, when what he was met with was the opposite of the violence he had almost always received, whether it was from Hyori or the perfect strangers who took advantage of his semi-conscious, half-consents made under the promise to appease his gnawing desire to be high. 

What Ushijima gave him instead was a gentle, chaste kiss on the very tender flesh of his Adam’s apple, placed in the very spot Oikawa had just begged him to abuse. He peeled an eye open to find the soft lips had wandered and were now pressed flush to the very faint beauty mark just above his collarbone, his body relaxing at the gesture. 

“I will never hurt you, even if you ask.”

A choked sob, caught in the abyss between sadness and pleasure, rose from Oikwa’s trembling chest as the realization came over him that the night they shared in that hotel room was not a fluke or an accident or some random act of serendipity. No, that night, just like this one, was purposeful, intentional, deliberately orchestrated to be exactly what it was: an expression of want and hope and yearning and something so, so close to love that Oikawa thought perhaps his heart might explode.

“Listen to me,” Ushijima commanded, the vibrato of his demand shaking Oikawa to the very core of his loins, “when I tell you that you are beautiful.” 

He sighed into the hand that cupped his face, bringing his own to wrap around the hardened muscle of the ace’s bicep. Ushijima had told him that night in the hotel, and in the bathtub the next morning, but the pure conviction here was unmatched and so genuine, Oikawa couldn’t help but to believe him. “Okay,” he agreed, the concession whispered against the thumb that so lovingly traced his bottom lip. He could only repeat himself, his brain only capable of stringing together the single word, “Okay.”

Ushijima didn’t hesitate further; he resumed moving, hips snapping back and forth, large hands covering, touching every millimeter of porcelain skin and taut muscle. He moved Oikawa’s legs to bring his long calves to rest on his broad shoulders, leaning in to brush a gentle kiss on the dark scar on the side of his right knee, the ever-present reminder of what could have been, the only blemish on the otherwise flawless body. 

At the tender sight, Oikawa felt himself almost come undone, near the brink of satiation when Ushijima’s hand came down and wrapped around his leaking, needy shaft. The few quick pumps were all it took for Oikawa to arch his back and gasp as ropes of thick white graced his abdomen, his vision clouding from pure ecstasy. 

“Fill me,” Oikawa begged, digging his nails into the muscular shoulder of the titan-like man above him. “Please, come in me.”

Ushijima’s thrusts became almost carnal, rhythmless, jerking without restraint until Oikawa could feel himself suddenly become so full, his oversensitive canal flooding with the beautiful, intense seed he had so passionately requested. His eyelashes fluttered on russet-stained cheeks as they suddenly felt so heavy, so much heavier than they ever had before, his consciousness hanging on the very edge of exhaustion and nirvana.

In his blissed-out daze, Oikawa missed the loving kisses that were placed so delicately on his balmy, reddened skin, attempting to console the angry red patches that had been left by gnawing, impassioned teeth.

He missed the hands that tried to soothe him, smoothing his chocolate hair away from his sweaty face to give Ushijima a better look at him in his satiated, sensitive state. 

He even missed the words that were so gently whispered into the canyons of his collarbone, spoken so softly that Ushijima's throat didn’t even vibrate when he confessed.

“I love you, Tooru.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.  
> Okay, so here is a confession that is probably TMI (but also probably super relatable). I wrote 90% of this, especially the last 5k-ish words, curled up in my office at work, wrapped in a blanket, listening to Lana del Rey, popping Midol, and eating peanut M&M's because I'm a hormonal, emotional mess the first day of each shark week. And I have no idea if this smut is any good or if you think it's a carbon copy of the shit from chapter 5 and if it is, I am so sorry. Maybe I'm just not good at this. Ughh. Please let me know what you think (sorry, I'm still in the same aforementioned state lol)  
> God, I love Ushijima. And Oikawa. Also, the stuff with Tendou was all improvised as I was writing, but I needed a way to introduce him because god I love that sweet, lanky weirdo and he is such a good friend to Ushi.  
> Oh, if y'all wanna see the dope ass car Ushiwaka drives, click [ here](https://www.mbusa.com/en/vehicles/class/maybach-s-class/sedan). You won't regret it, promise.  
> Thank you so much again for all of your kind comments and kudos. To answer a question I have gotten in the comments, I am shooting for 100-120k words for this story. I am a terrible, horrible, fan-fic writer because while I have a general plan and I know how this bad boy ends, I am literally writing this week-to-week and posting it as it's written. I also don't have a beta editor and I'm just doing the best I can lol. So thank you times a million for all of the love, honestly. I am almost brought to tears with each comment.  
> Okay, that's enough of my rambling. I hope you guys enjoyed this almost 9k word chapter (holy cow!)
> 
> Next time: comfort


	11. Turning Tables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings below also contain spoilers, but I need to post them anyway. Also, I'll have notes at the bottom. I hope you guys don't hate this chapter because I kind of do. 
> 
> T/W: descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, also negativity in regards to homosexuality, though no slurs are actually used

Waking up next to someone wasn’t what was unfamiliar, in reality, Oikawa had done it countless times. He had probably woken up in Hyori’s bed more often than his own. In fact, he had even woken up to Ushijima once, about a week ago. 

But that had been different.

Well, not  _ that _ different. It had been a little familiar, the nuance of waking up naked on a cheap bed in a hotel room that had an hourly rate instead of the standard nightly one.  _ That _ was sickeningly familiar, like a warm, suffocating blanket, a metaphorical Kavorikian scarf. Though he had found himself on that morning in particular, wrapped in arms that he wished more than anything felt more familiar than they did. But also, some part of him wanted them to feel more foreign. He was so conflicted, so berated by the insistent push and pull that warred in his mind. 

That’s where he found himself again: conflicted, staring up at the darkness that enveloped the room, the only movement coming from the ace who breathed so wholly, so gently, sleeping on his side, his right arm flung across Oikawa’s naked midsection. 

_ This _ was different. Last night was, too, if he was being completely honest with himself. Though he was hardly honest with anyone, himself especially, too afraid of the vulnerability encased in the truth, completely terrified of what he would find if he was introspective for too long.

What did he feel for Ushijima Wakatoshi? What were they, even now? Oikawa scoffed at the idea of staying put in his apartment like some sort of domestic house husband, but he knew Ushijima wouldn’t want that, either. But what did the ace expect of him? Did he have expectations at all? He couldn’t help but wonder. Oikawa was the man Ushijima had so foolishly brought home high and drunk from a club. The man he risked everything for. The man for whom he threw away his captainship, and nearly so much more.

Oikawa brought his gaze down to the other man’s sleeping features, barely visible in the darkness, the only light coming from the window, filtering in blue and gray from the streetlights far below the highrise building. In the hushed tones, Oikawa could admire the features that seemed so fierce and intimidating by the light of day. Here, he could see the sharp plane of his nose, the muted, pink flush to his cheeks, the messy, olive locks that fell loosely over his forehead, the usual crease lines now smoothed in gentle sleep. He brought his eyes to the beautiful cupid’s bow of his upper lip, so full, yet still so masculine. 

Oikawa couldn’t keep himself from gently taking the pads of his fingers and running them over, soft as a whisper, the divots of muscle that scaled his back, tracing the outline of his shoulder blade up to his bicep, that even when resting, boasted density, undeniable proof of all the power and strength it possessed. Power and strength he never used, Oikawa couldn’t help thinking, lest it was on the volleyball court or against Hyori, the last one causing Oikawa to smirk in satisfaction.

Ushijima’s touches last night were so loving, filled with admiration, as if he was worshiping every inch of the pale skin that encompassed Oikawa’s being… every inch of Oikawa as a whole. He treated Oikawa like a whole person, not something broken or shattered or used.

He was so unlike who appeared to be on the outside, all serious scowls and minimal speech filled with blunt words. Oikawa brushed the olive bangs away from Ushijima’s face with the realization burning in his heart that this man - this vulnerable, elaborate, layered version - was all his. The world got to see him as the robotic, emotionless powerhouse that he put forth, but Oikawa got to see something else. Ushijima in reality was many things all at once, and every tier something new, something almost mysterious, something that Oikawa wanted to latch onto. And he was so very, very afraid, not of Ushijima, but of the feelings the ace stirred within him. 

“Tooru,” a deep voice crooned, heavy with sleep and edged with what sounded like concern. The setter shuttered as Ushijima’s hand cupped the back of his long, pale neck, threading his thick fingers through the short, dark hairs present there, the shutter only intensifying as Ushijima rubbed his thumb gingerly along the expanse of his Adam’s apple. “Are you okay?”

Oikawa was more than okay. He was safe, warm, and loved, engulfed and overwhelmed in everything that was Ushijima Wakatoshi, someone who up until a few weeks ago, he only thought of as a former rival and source of scary, and oftentimes, confusing, sexual tension. A panging sensation he couldn’t describe flashed across his chest, gripping his heart. He could feel the ace’s golden gaze raking across his face, desperate for a response from him, waiting patiently for an answer. 

“Yes,” he responded finally, his voice a few octaves higher than planned. He gently cleared his throat then continued, “I am fine.”

“Can you not sleep?” Ushijima asked, scooting himself closer to the smaller man, pulling him until Oikawa’s shoulder was pushed flushed to the broad expanse of his own broad chest. 

A soft laugh left him. “No, I just woke up a few moments ago,” he explained, though it was a half-truth. He had no idea how long he had been lying there, lost in thought, and drinking in the sublime, masculine sight beside him. He closed his eyes as Ushijima moved his hands to cup Oikawa’s face, his thumb fluttering across the tips of his long, dark eyelashes. 

“You do that often,” Oikawa commented, stilling himself between the ace’s touch: tender and slow, yet so all-consuming. 

“I like touching that which is beautiful,” Ushijima stated, voice low and strong, sounding more like distant thunder as it rolled through his body. The words were easy, simple, with no underlying intentions. Ushijima just stated what he believed with zero reservations, he always had. 

“All of me is beautiful, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa countered with a haughty scoff, a flirtatious tone in his words.

Ushijima smiled - a real, honest-to-God smile, Oikawa realized - and moved so that he could place both hands on the setter’s bare hips before gently moving them up along his sides, taking careful mental account of how every ounce of his skin felt beneath his touch. “You are right,” Ushijima agreed. “All of you deserves to be touched.”

Oikawa did his best to roll his eyes and feign resistance as Ushijima’s mouth crashed into his, nipping at his pink, supple lips. But he couldn’t; he caved, unable to resist the man any longer.

\---------------

The weeks stretched on, January rolling into mid-February. Ushijima found himself working Oikawa into his routine as much as possible. The duo shared breakfast together each day and fell into the ace’s king-sized bed each night. The guest room was still Oikawa’s if he wanted it, or needed it, but Ushijima didn’t push him away again. He let himself enjoy holding the setter each night, smelling his shampoo, feeling him as he gained the healthy weight back, noting that it was likely from eating proper meals and working out at the complex’s fitness center.

During the day, when Ushijima was occupied with practice and interviews and volunteer work, Oikawa busied himself with the darkroom and therapy and group meetings, even applying for various marketing jobs around the city. So far, it had proven to be a fruitless endeavor, but Ushijima encouraged him to keep trying until he found the right fit, though he didn’t need to rush it out of desperation - he was welcome to stay as long as he liked. 

The first several weeks of Oikawa’s new-found sobriety had been especially challenging, the former setter struggling with mood swings and fighting the ups and downs that clawed at his reasoning. He frequently snapped at Ushijima, angry for reasons he had difficulties explaining. He wanted nothing more than to drink, or to get high, but he fought it with all that he had. Group was helping, though he hadn’t shared anything yet. He went and listened to the problems of those there and how they handled the challenges in their own lives, which Oikawa found to be inspiring, though he would never admit it aloud.

Working with Dr. Anzai, his therapist, was hard at first, mainly because Oikawa struggled with honesty. He was afraid to be honest with the doctor. First came the concern of sharing his homosexuality with him, fearful that it would be what the therapist would try to ‘fix’, but much to his relief, he found that wasn’t the case. Dr. Anzai brushed off the reveal of his sexuality with a passive wave - it didn’t matter. But what did matter was the emotional and physical abuse he had suffered from the hands of others and how they directly correlated with his own addictive behaviors. That was going to take more than just a few weeks to unpack, but just beginning to open up to a professional about it helped more than he thought it would. Just having someone tell him he wasn’t crazy and that he didn’t deserve the abuse he had been put through was… reassuring. Freeing, almost. Like he was finally given permission to take a step forward. 

And that’s what he was going to do.

“I have an interview,” Oikawa announced at breakfast. It was Tuesday morning and he sat at the glass kitchen table with Ushijima, the pair enjoying the eggs that the ace had prepared for them.

Ushijima raised his golden gaze to meet Oikawa’s eyes. “Where?” he asked before taking a bite of his food.

“It is at a small art studio downtown. It is just part-time work,” Oikawa explained, giving a dismissive wave. “It is just answering phones and helping schedule artists and stuff like that. Manage their social media accounts. It’s really not much.”

Ushijima smiled softly before leaning forward and placing a firm hand on Oikawa’s thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze over the cotton fabric of his sweatpants. “It sounds like a good fit.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes, but the small smile on his face betrayed his annoyed gesture. “It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, peeling his gaze away from Ushijima’s handsome features. 

“When is your interview?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, at 4 p.m. You will probably be home from practice before I can get back.”

“Would you like to go to dinner to celebrate?” Ushijima inquired, keeping a careful eye on Oikawa.

The setter only shook his head. “No, don’t worry about it. It’s just a part-time thing I probably won’t even get.” He took another quick breath before adding, “even so, it’s not an accomplishment worth celebrating.”

Ushijima narrowed his eyes. “It is worth celebrating, and they would be foolish not to hire you.”

“A homosexual recovering addict with anger issues and bum ass knee who --”

Ushijima cut him off by increasing the pressure on his leg, nothing forceful or painful, but an obvious physical manifestation of his building irritation. “Don’t speak of yourself that way.” The heavy timbre in his voice hinted at just how serious he was. He hated when Oikawa tore himself down, a bad habit he acquired from spending too much time around people who were quick to do it for him. 

Oikawa scoffed and turned his head away, cheeks turning scarlet. “What did I say that was untrue?” 

“You are more than the things you use to tear yourself down,” Ushijima explained, removing his hand from Oikawa’s thigh to reach up and tuck a piece of chocolate hair behind his ear instead. “And being homosexual isn’t one of the things you should ever list regardless.”

Oikawa huffed at the comment, but said nothing more. He took the last few bites of his food before standing and taking his plate to the kitchen. Ushijima watched as the setter turned to face him, clearly wanting to say something else, but didn’t. Instead, he disappeared down the hallway, turning into the guest room. 

\-------------

“Miya, watch how high you set those!” Hinata complained, leaning over to take a deep breath, hands on his thighs. “I don’t have giant arms like Sakusa!” 

From the edge of the court, Sakusa rolled his eyes. “Maybe you just need to jump a little higher?” he teased, eyes sharp on the ginger-haired boy. 

“Just do it how Kageyama does it!” Hinata pointed out, clearly frustrated with the fact he had missed the last three sets in a row due to a timing error.

“Now, now,” Miya chided, leaning forward so his breath was hot on Hinata’s ear. “I know I could do it better than Kageyama if you let me.” The bleached-blond pulled back with a less-than-subtle wink, causing the decoy to turn an even brighter shade of red.

“Alright, Jesus, you could cut the sexual tension in here with a knife,” Kuroo interrupted, holding up his hands, motioning for the two to separate. “Break it up, boys.”

“I could name some things I could cut with a knife,” Kageyama pointed out from the other side of the net, teeth clenched and seething, taking another step toward center court.

Miya held up his hands innocently and chuckled. “Easy killer, it was just a joke!” He shook his head and then gave a shrug. “Just a little  _ inside  _ Black Jackals joke… Adlers wouldn’t get it.” He punctuated the statement with yet another smarmy wink, and that was it. Kageyama ducked under the net and was in Miya’s face in a matter of seconds, bunching the material of his practice jersey in a closed fist.

“Fuck, stop this!” Bokuto exclaimed, cutting in, putting a hand on each setter’s chest in an attempt to pry them apart. “We are a  _ team _ , so fucking act like it.”

Ushijima was standing idly by watching as his kohai attempted to slaughter each other, taking a long drink from his water bottle - it wasn’t his responsibility anymore, it was Bokuto’s. And besides that, he knew the guys needed to blow off steam and just hash it out. The pressures of the national team were beginning to bare their ugly teeth and they were all feeling the repercussions. 

“Is this how you captain a team, son?” 

Ushijima shuttered at the voice that echoed behind him. It was all too familiar even though he hadn’t heard it in almost a year. He swallowed thickly once before turning around to see exactly who he expected - Utsui Takashi.

“Otousan?” Ushijima asked, struggling to keep the confusion from his voice. 

“Takashi-san!” came an exclamation from the other end of the net, their coach wildly flailing his hand in the air. “You came!”

Ushijima turned to look at his coach, who was rapidly approaching them, then back at his father, who stood, hands in his pockets, an almost smug expression on his face.

_ Fuck _ , was the only thing the ace could think as the two older men shook hands and smiled at one another, exchanging pleasantries. Ushijima had been avoiding his father, not taking his phone calls, only managing to return a few texts here and there. But he knew when his father said nothing directly about the hotel incident during any of their brief correspondences that something like this was coming. And at that notion, the anxiety swelled tighter in his stomach, sending bile shooting up his esophagus. 

“What do you say, son? Coach invited me to do some drills with you all.” He wore an expression that was difficult to read. “And then after practice, why don’t you come out to dinner with your dear ol’ dad?”

Ushijima could only manage a nod before a few of his teammates began to bombard his father, Hinata exclaiming how thrilled he was to be meeting such a ‘legend’. Even Kagayema looked impressed, wiping the usual smirk from his face and replacing it with one akin of respect.

Ushijima rose to full height and swallowed thickly.  _ Be a fucking man _ , he scolded himself,  _ act like a man. _

Inhale. Exhale.

_ Fuck. _

\-----------------------

Buildings, cars, people all passed by in the waning evening light, but Ushijima didn’t see them, not really, his vision was unfocused and his thoughts scrambled in his brain. He could feel the anxiety clawing at his intestines, but he couldn’t let it show on his face. He sat up straight, hands folded on his lap. 

“It seems like you have kept a few things hidden from me.” His father’s voice soft, but still so powerful, much like his own. He didn’t need to yell to be terrifying, that was for certain.

Ushijima let his gaze skim across his father’s face. His eyes were fixed on the road as he drove, appearing almost aloof at first glance, but the ace spotted the tell-tale signs: the way his father’s knuckles were white as his fingers gripped the steering wheel, the thin, pressed line of his lips, and the bristling tension in his shoulders. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his father was  _ pissed. _

“I was not aware that I had to check in with you at the age of twenty-five.”

This comment caused his father to laugh, though the sound was joyless. “You sure have changed, Wakatoshi,” the older man murmured with a slight shake of his head.

“I haven’t,” he replied firmly as the car slowed to a stop, pulling outside of the hotel he presumed was his father’s.

“Hungry?” Takashi inquired, putting the vehicle in park. Before Ushijima could answer, his father had already opened his door and stepped out, handing the Audi keys to a valet who stood by, clearly not interested in his son’s reply. With a final deep breath, the ace followed suit, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

“I booked us a reservation at the restaurant,” his father continued, reaching out to clap him firmly on the back, though the gesture lacked affection. Ushijima tensed at the connection but said nothing, only taking another step toward the hotel door. “I hear they have the best hayashi rice.”

Ushijima didn’t reply and his demeanor didn’t change, even at the mention of his favorite food. His father led them inside, snaking toward the back of the hotel to the restaurant, which was actually very elegant and Ushijima noticeably stood out, and not just because of his size: he was dressed in jeans and a ‘Team Japan’ hoodie and his father was dressed in dark slacks and a gray button-down. Nothing too fancy, but notably nicer than what the ace was wearing.

“Don’t worry about it, son, we have a private room,” Takashi reassured him, quickly picking up on his son’s train of thought. 

A hostess guided them toward the back, ushering them into a traditional tatami room. She offered a quick bow before closing the door, sealing Ushijima away with his father, the tension enveloping him as he lowered himself to the floor.

“So,” Takashi began, taking his seat as well. “How are things,  _ captain _ ?”

Ushijima flinched, the movement so subtle under the rigid anxiety present in his shoulders. He hoped his father didn’t notice. “I am not the captain anymore, otousan.” But Ushijima knew his father already knew that.

“Hmm,” his father hummed, picking up the menu, not bothering to look up at his son. “That’s quite a turn of events.”

“How is Irvine?” Ushijima asked in an attempt to change the subject.

“Is this because of that Oikawa boy?” There was no hiding the disdain oozing from his father’s words as he deflected Ushijima’s half-ass attempt to move on from the elephant in the room. 

Bile caught in Ushijima’s throat once more. He couldn’t lie, not to anyone, but especially not to his father, not even about this. “He is my friend,” Ushijima provided. It wasn’t technically a lie, because he actually had no idea how else to describe Oikawa Tooru. What could he call him? Explain casually that he is just a hot guy who lives in his apartment and sleeps in his bed and who he has sex with and is wildly in love with even though --

“Is he your friend like Saito was your friend?”

_ Saito _ . Ushijima sneered at the mention of his college boyfriend, or whatever the fuck they had been. The ace had wanted them to be boyfriends - Ushijima had loved him, after all. He was every single of his firsts, from their initial kiss behind their college auditorium, down to the many sexual activities they shared as roommates in the athletic dorm. Saito had been on their college team, their libero. He was older than Ushijima by two years and so much more experienced than the young ace. Saito showed him everything, let him explore and experiment and navigate the uncertain waters of his sexuality. And then, when Saito graduated, that was it. 

“No strings attached, Ushiwaka,” the libero had whispered into his ear at the farewell dinner hosted by the university as a way to send off the graduates. Saito was headed to Germany to continue his career and he already made it abundantly clear: Ushijima was fun to play with, in more ways than one, but that was all. He was moving on.

Ushijima stared down at the restaurant menu, the kanji blurring together so he couldn’t read it. Not that he needed to, he wasn’t hungry anyway, not anymore. Was Oikawa just his friend, like Saito had just been his ‘friend’?

“He’ll have the hayashi rice, please,” the baritone of his father’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He sheepishly handed the menu up to the waitress - he hadn’t even noticed her walk in or request their orders. He blinked rapidly, trying to steer himself back toward the present.

“Answer the question, son,” his father prompted again after the server had left, hands folded on the low table, gaze fixed intently on Ushijima’s fae.

“I don’t know,” came his reply, voice almost hoarse and laced with apprehension. “I can’t answer that.”

Takashi let out a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t have left you with your mother.” At that comment, a confused, dark eyebrow arched on Ushijima’s forehead. But before he could ask, his father began to elaborate. “She was too soft on you. You had too much estrogen around you, I guess. You probably needed me around - a man.

“I thought you would grow out of it, though. You know, I see that shit all the time in the states - you know they can even get married to each other there?” He let out a little scoff at the idea. “I mean, I don’t care. Or never did care, because it didn’t have anything to with me. But Wakatoshi, come on. You are twenty-five now. The experimental stage is over.”

His father let out a heavy sigh and scrubbed his face on his hands. He suddenly looked very, very tired. “Waka, come on,” he repeated. “Think about your image. Your family. A fucking  _ gay  _ on the national team?” He shook his head as if he were trying to rid the image from his mind. “It won’t work. You’re lucky all you lost is your captainship, if I had been your coach, I would have just kicked you off the team.”

Anger and anxiety mixed in Ushijima’s chest, a lethal concoction that he could feel poisoning his very being, snaking through his veins like hot venom. His teeth ached from the tight clench in his jaw. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

“I love you, son. And your success is very important to me,” the older man went on, seemingly unaware that his son looked like he was about to snap. “But I won’t approve of this relationship, even if it were a woman. It was toxic from the beginning, the way you so clearly pined for that Oikawa boy to come to Shiratorizawa with you. And the fact that it’s a man makes it even worse.” His father sighed again. “I knew I should have flown out the second I heard the news about your little scuffle. But no matter, this can still be fixed.”

“There is nothing to fix.” The quiet, cold manner in which he delivered the line seemed to rattle the older man, the room growing suddenly still. It was Ushijima’s turn to speak. “I am not broken.”

“Well, not  _ broken _ , per say, but--”

The ace didn’t let his father finish his sentence. “I am just gay, otousan. And I am in love with a man. There is nothing complicated about it. It isn’t mom’s fault, it isn’t Oikawa’s fault, and it’s certainly not yours.” His deep voice seemed to rattle the paper walls, not because of it’s volume, but rather due to its sheer conviction. The words were even, calculated, like a well-timed kill on the court, leaving his father stunned, taken aback. 

Ushijima rose from his seat, the pressure and tension coiling in his stomach as he looked down at his father. He did have a kind face, with his bright eyes and neatly trimmed beard. He had been a good dad, and Ushijima couldn’t hate him, even with his harsh and misinformed words still causing his heart to hurt. “Have a safe trip back to California, otousan.” 

\-----------

It was quiet in the apartment. Oikawa wasn’t used to his new roommate (is that what they were?) not being there. The stoic giant had a routine and stuck to it like it was the only thing that kept him grounded in orbit. That’s why when Oikawa emerged from the darkroom he was surprised to not see Ushijima standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner like normal. He rolled his wrist over to glance at his Apple watch. It was a little after 8 p.m. and he had no texts or calls from the ace.

Where the fuck was he?

The brunette walked into the living room to pick up his phone to double-check that perhaps the notifications just hadn’t come through on his watch. He clicked the side button - nothing.

Seriously, what the fuck?

At that moment, a sound at the front door pulled him from his concerns: it was the beeping of the entry pad. Oikawa stepped around the corner and eyed Ushijima closely as he stepped into the genkan, slowly removing his shoes as the heavy front door latched shut behind him.

“Where have you been?” Oikawa asked, but hated how it sounded the moment it left his mouth. It made him feel like a controlling spouse or something. But before he could shake his head and try to rephrase the sentence, the taller man was already pushing past him.

Oikawa blinked at the gesture, momentarily taken aback that he had been ignored. “Oi, Ushiwaka-chan. What the fuck?” he couldn’t hold back the bite in his tone.

Ushijima ignored him once more, stepping into the kitchen. Oikawa followed him, watching as the ace put his large hands on the countertop and leaned into it, as if using it as a brace or a crutch. As the setter made his way around the kitchen island, that’s when the setter finally saw it, the look on Ushijima’s face.

His olive hair had fallen messily over his forehead, his usually tan complexion had gone completely pallid and devoid of color, making his skin appear almost ghost-white. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might just snap. And his breathing --

Ushijima wasn’t breathing, not from what Oikawa could tell. He was just standing there, hunched over, his golden eyes glassy and distant. And his chest made no effort to rise and fall. Instead, he remained stationary, as if he were just a household fixture, lifeless.

“Wakatoshi?” the brunette whispered, taking a tentative step toward the taller man. His words felt ear-shattering in the stiff silence of the apartment. “Waka, are you okay?”

Oikawa placed a gentle hand on the hunched shoulders and felt it - the severe, tangible anxiety housed in the muscles just beneath his touch. It almost burned him, like it was warning him to pull his hand away but begging him not to leave at the same time. The sensation was as concerning as it was conflicting.

“Waka, look at me,” Oikawa moved so he could put one hand on either side of Ushijima’s neck, trying to get the ace to turn and face him. “Are you okay?”

The taller man moved slightly, raising his head just a little, giving Oikawa a sight he thought he would never see: tears stung the corners of Ushijima’s eyes, beautiful golden orbs that still looked so lost, so distant, so hurt.

“Shit,” Oikawa hissed, increasing the vice grip he had on Ushijima’s shoulders. He still wasn’t breathing, his body locked, frozen in place. “Hey, you need to breathe.” 

_ Take as needed for panic attacks. _

The thought popped in Oikawa’s brain and it felt like he had been hit by a freight train. The realization left him immediately winded:

_ He’s having a fucking panic attack. _

Oikawa felt his own chest tighten, but he knew he had to act. “Hey let’s go sit on the couch,” he offered, trying to shed his own anxiety that threatened to send the already fucked-up situation spiraling into chaos. The brunette moved to squeeze Ushijima’s hand, but he found himself being pulled down as the ace slid to the tiles of the kitchen floor. 

“Ushi?” He couldn’t mask the panic in his own voice now as Ushijima brought his knees to his chest, his left hand still gripped around Oikawa’s, the other balling the front of his sweatshirt as if he were holding onto it for dear life.

_ He needs his medicine. _

Oikawa gave the hand he held a firm squeeze. “Ushijima stay here, okay? I’m gonna go get your medicine from the bathroom, hang on.”

Reluctantly letting go, Oikawa took off sprinting toward the master bath. He threw open the medicine cabinet only to find… nothing. Nothing but aspirin and toothpaste and band-aids. What the fuck? Where was his prescription? 

Oikawa began opening drawers, filtering through various bathroom products. Where was his medicine? He  _ had  _ a prescription, somewhere, surely. He had it before. Where was it now? Giving up, he entered the master bedroom, making his way to the nightstand as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He quickly punched in the one number he knew to call: Suga.

“Hello?” came the silver-haired nurse’s response, his tone warm as usual. In the background, Oikaw heard the faint cries of what he assumed was their baby.

“Suga, fuck,” he whispered, “it’s Oikawa.”

Suga immediately caught onto the urgency in the brunette’s words. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“Where is Ushijima’s medication?”

“Medication?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Mr. Refreshing. Where the actual fuck is his meds? You know the ones I tried to OD on?”

Suga scoffed at the long-forgotten nickname. “It’s not at the house.”

Oikawa’s heart dropped to his stomach. “It’s not here?”

“No,” Suga said, his reply icy and almost annoyed. “Sorry to disappoint you, but Ushijima turned them back while you were in the hospital.”

“ _ What? _ ” Now it was his turn to really panic. “Suga you don’t understand, I’m not trying to fucking high right now, okay? Ushijima needs his medicine.”

“What?”

“He’s having a fucking panic attack in the kitchen right now!” Tears clawed at Oikawa’s hazel eyes now, frustration burning his throat as he spoke. “So, please just help me because I don’t know what the fuck to do!”

Suga gasped on the other line, clearly composing himself, shifting into his nurse role. “Okay, first sweetheart, take a deep breath, because you cannot be panicking if he is. Can you do that?”

Oikawa replied with a shaky inhale and an even shakier exhale.

“Okay, good enough. Now go back into the kitchen and put the call on speakerphone.” Oikawa hurried back down the hall to find Ushijima in a worsened state, tears were now running down his handsome face, leaving wet stains all down his masculine features. His breathing was labored, ragged, shallow. His large hands were threaded through his hair, balled into fists, knees still brought up under his chin. 

Oikawa explained Ushijima’s current condition to the nurse who responded with some instructions. “Get a towel and wet it down, okay? With cool water.”

Oikawa rushed to open the drawer he knew that held the kitchen towels, selecting the first one he saw before heading to the sink and dampening it with cold water. He rang it out a few times so it wasn’t sopping wet.

“Hold it against his forehead and count to ten, keep your breathing under control, okay?”

Oikawa crouched beside the ace and pressed the cold compress against his forehead, which prompted him to let out an almost relieved sounding sigh at the contact. He was clammy, and Oikawa swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat. With his free hand, he grabbed one of Ushijima’s.

“Hey babe, listen to me,” Oikawa cooed, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, running his thumb over the large knuckles beneath his touch. “We’re gonna count to ten okay, just keep breathing, in and out.” With his own heavy inhale he started.

“One…” 

A ragged breath followed from the ace.

“Two…”

A few more seconds passed and Oikawa watched with relief as Ushijima’s eyes fluttered closed and he rested his head on the cabinet behind him, another breath following, this one a little longer, and a little more stable.

“Seven…” 

Oikawa clutched his hand tighter and felt his heart overflow when Ushijima reciprocated with a weak, gentle squeeze of his own.

“Ten…”

Oikawa ducked down to place a kiss on Ushijima’s temple, burying his nose into the short locks of olive hair there, a little damp from the wet washcloth. “I’m right here, babe.”

“Tooru, is everything okay?” came Suga’s muffled voice from the speakerphone where Oikawa had left it on the counter. 

“Yeah,” he croaked, voice breaking as he wrapped his arms around Ushijima, pulling the large man into his narrow chest, placing chaste, careful kisses in his dark hair. “Yeah I think so.”

“Call me in the morning, Tooru,” Suga instructed before the line disconnected. 

Moments passed just like that, silent tears making their way down high cheekbones, Ushijima engulfed in his embrace, the former setter whispering sweet words of reassurance in an attempt to quell whatever burdened him. 

“I’m sorry.” The words left the ace in a shaky breath, spoken as if his mouth were filled with sand, hoarse and scratchy and almost remorseful.

“Don’t be sorry,” Oikawa countered, almost a plea. “Don’t you ever be sorry for this, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so here's some notes. 
> 
> First of all, I'm not the world's biggest fan of the way I wrote this chapter. I'm just not. I had such high hopes for it and I feel like I didn't do a good job and I'm afraid it let you guys down. So if you don't hate it, can you leave me a comment and let me know? I've spent hours and hours writing it and I... ugh. Anyway, moving on.
> 
> Also, I have anxiety. Big time. And panic attacks. The wet washcloth thing is something my husband does (he is a nurse) and it helps me focus on a new sensation other than the one trying to barrel a tunnel in my chest. It's not like, for everyone, but everyone experiences anxiety and panic attacks differently. 
> 
> Also, don't hate Ushi's dad too much for now.
> 
> Oh, and I made a Tumblr? Keep in mind I'm well over 27, and I had one when was I was 14/15 and used it non-stop. Anyway, I deleted that bad boy a long time and made a new one: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/photogiraffe77  
> I feel super old on it and if someone wants to yell at me on there or whatever, by my guest lol. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and the comments and the kudos. It seriously means a lot!!


	12. Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as the title suggests, this chapter is a lot of talking, but it's worth it. See bottom for more notes.  
> And above all else, *HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OIKAWA*! I don't know about y'all, but I'm hella in my feels today. It's Oikawa's bday and the Haikyuu manga ended. What a ride!!

Limbs entangled each other, like the twisting roots of a young tree, not quite sturdy, but still grounding them to the present, and even more so, to each other. The kitchen tile felt cool, almost reassuring, beneath aching extremities that were growing numb and sore from lack of use. Long, nimble fingers carded through olive locks, a small token of physical affection, but an attempt to comfort all the same. 

Oikawa knew he had always been selfish. Addiction was born from that very concept, that one’s selfish desires were more important than anything else. He knew wholeheartedly that he would burn himself down for that ideology. He was selfish, and it wasn’t a mystery or a difficult concept to grasp. His actions at his best friend’s wedding had been proof enough alone. 

He had spent the last few weeks grappling with his desires. Who did he love more? Himself, or the man who offered to sacrifice anything and everything if only Oikawa could find happiness? Could he find it in himself to change? Or, if he was honest, did he even love himself at all? And if he didn’t love himself, could he really love another person?

The guilt of it all slowly ate at Oikawa, pouring searing hot and oozing from his heart, only to drip and pool in an acidic knot in his stomach. This was his fault, he was sure of it. Ushijima was a creature of routine, whose life had been one calculated movement to the next, taking careful, well-treaded steps along the way, and his presence had only disturbed that. If not for him, Ushijima would still be the captain, and he would still have his medication when he needed it, and Oikawa wouldn’t be the fragile, twine-like thread holding it all together at the moment. 

He wasn’t sure how long they had been laying there like that, Ushijima resting his head on the narrow expanse of Oikawa’s chest, the small, rhythmic rise-and-fall of his breathing, almost trance-like, his back flush to the floor. But when the silence was broken, it was the setter who spoke first. “This is my fault.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing at how loud the admission sounded in the otherwise still kitchen.

“No.”

“It is!” Oikawa couldn’t regulate the words: they were shrill, high-pitched, sharp as they punctured the air. 

“Stop.” It was a demand, though in the softest sense of the word, spoken from a strained and hoarse throat, thick with uncertainty and just a bit of apprehension, reminiscent of the first step on an icy, winter sidewalk. It was obvious the ace was exhausted. “It was something else.”

A brief, eerie silence followed, just as cryptic and unreadable as Ushijima’s face, his golden eyes fixated on a spot on the ceiling, clearly trying to string his muddy thoughts together. While what little actual crying he had done ceased over an hour ago, his eyes were still red-rimmed, face tear-stained. Now, it seemed he had shifted into something that truly terrified Oikawa: a numbness that wasn’t easily broken. 

“My father came to practice today.” Everyone who was anyone in the world of volleyball knew who Ushijima’s father was - the great player who left Japan to train athletes in the States. He was renowned, and his son’s abilities only proved his prowess as a coach and a trainer. “He found out about my change of status on the team.” While his voice remained monotonous, giving the impression he was uncaring, Oikawa could hear the weight of the words, as if they were wrapped in cement and plummeting toward the shadowy depth of deep waters. It was an explanation, simply stated.

Oikawa’s eyes did not leave the olympian’s lips, watching them closely for any kind of tick or twitch, some kind of physical proof outside the weariness when he spoke that he was unraveling. Before he could offer something, any sort of loving or reassuring word, Ushijima spoke again. “If I had been a man, this wouldn’t have happened.”

A noisy, discontented scoff proceeded, “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Ushijima blinked slowly, thoughts churning in his mind, brain clearly calculating. “Had I acted like a man, I wouldn’t have had a panic attack today nor would I have worried you.”

“I didn’t realize masculinity was the defining factor of warding off mental health issues, Waka-chan.” Oikawa sat up, prompting the ace to do the same. They turned on the floor to sit side-by-side, backs against the cabinets of the island. “If so, I must not be a man at all... I guess that would explain a lot.”

“No.”

Oikawa scoffed. It never ceased to amaze him how a single, simple word could be spoken with so much absolution. “I’m just following your logic.”

Ushijima stretched out his long legs until the tips of his stocking feet touched the opposite cabinet, clearly mulling over the counter-argument that had been given to him. Oikawa slumped, resting his head against the ace’s broad shoulder, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms hugging them close.

“Men are whatever they are,” Oikawa explained softly. “Once people find out about my sexual orientation, they say that I must be ‘the girl’.” A shame-induced blush ran up his neck and cheeks making it impossible to hide his embarrassment. “Hiyori asked me once if I ever got to ‘be the man’ in my relationships.” He wretched, clearly disgusted at the memory. “What a dick. I’m more of a man than he ever was.”

“It brought me unmitigated joy to inflict pain upon him.” A small smirk twitched across the ace’s lips, faint, but still noticeable.

The deadpan delivery pulled out a laugh from the setter, albeit, a choked one reminiscent of a sob. “It cost you your captainship.”

“I realize I don’t care about the captain’s title.” Ushijima’s eyes were staring ahead once more, the entirety of his being focused on the words he had so meticulously thought out. ”My father said something to me today that made me realize something a bit more important.”

The shorter brunette narrowed his eyes, hyper-focused on Ushijima’s jaw. It was clenched tight, a solid, hardened line, another small hint that his anxiety hadn’t been completely staved off, or perhaps, that it was resurfacing. “And what is that?”

“You asked me about him once,” Ushijima started, speaking slowly, calculating each word. “And I didn’t answer you.”

“About who?” Maybe he was far too exhausted, but he couldn’t keep the confusion out of his voice.

“The man I dated before... You said to me on that first morning after the bar, ‘you had a boyfriend in college’.” Ushijima folded his hands together and sat them on his lap, flexing his fingers together, a nervous instinct. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. I think he was ashamed of me, more than anything.”

“Ashamed?” He spat, the very idea threatened to send Oikawa into a fit of laughter. Who would be ashamed to date such a handsome, successful, and surprisingly sweet, man? Though that’s not something he would acknowledge aloud, he harbored it in his heart all the same.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Because I am a simple man and I don’t say much, he looked at me as if I were stupid and foolish... someone whom he could easily manipulate. Perhaps he was right, in a way. I was naive enough to believe that acts of the sexual and physical nature always equaled mutual desire for affection and love.” Ushijima turned his head then, rich eyes brimming with melancholy and remorse, watery and complex, as if copper and gold had been melted together. “They do not.”

Oikawa’s mouth fell open, but he said nothing for a long moment, letting the pause fill up his lungs and silence the kitchen once more. He blinked slowly, his long lashes attempting to brush the surprise away from his expression. He couldn’t help but see the image of Hiyori then, and how Ushijima’s conclusion had summed up their time together, too. Hiyori never touched him in a way that suggested love, or affection, or respect. Hiyori touched him to take, to steal, to rob. “They do not,” Oikawa parroted the phrase, a shiver of understanding running down his spine.

“My father asked me if this was the same.”

“This?” 

“Us.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened and anxiety shot up his stomach, burning his throat. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he tried to form words, struggling to say anything that would pass a coherent thought. His limbs felt very heavy then, weighing him considerably. 

“Are we the same?” Ushijima’s question hung in the air after he said it, lingering; cumbersome and expectant. 

A low inhale proceeded an even slower exhale, hazel orbs sealing themselves away behind tired eyelids, a clenching band of nerves dancing beneath gooseflesh skin. Oikawa knew he wanted an answer, who wouldn’t, after such an admission? “We are not,” he said finally. “This is not the same.”

Gentle, tender lips pressed to the crown of his head, the finality of the action sealing away the dark clouds that had spent so much time gathering in his heart, giving his exhausted body permission to find rest. 

\------------

“So? How did it go?” Suga took a long sip of his coffee, the steam rising from the little hole in the lid. The hot liquid was a stark contrast from the cold outside.

“I think it went… okay,” Oikawa admitted, fiddling with the straw of his frappuccino. He chose to drink something iced and sweet, despite the snow that threatened to fall from the sky outside. The pair were holed up in a coffee shop located just a few blocks away from the downtown art studio where Oikawa had just interviewed. 

“Just ‘okay’?” Suga quirked a gray eyebrow and tilted his head, watching the brunette carefully.

Oikawa sighed heavily, crossing his legs under the tall table, shifting to try to release the nervous tension in his body. “Yeah, it was pretty basic stuff. They seemed really nice and I think it will be a good entry-level position, but I… I was a bit distracted,” he admitted.

“Is Ushijima doing alright?” Suga’s honey eyes were rimmed with concern, wide and curious. The former Karasuno vice-captain had checked in with Oikawa that morning, inquiring about the state of things. When the brunette mentioned he had things he wanted to discuss in detail, Suga invited him to coffee.

“Yeah, he seems better today.” He tucked a piece of dark hair behind his ear, forever fidgeting, returning his gaze back to his drink. “I haven’t seen him really though because we slept in late before he went to practice. But last night, we had a talk.”

“About?”

“The definition of manhood, past relationships…” he paused briefly, thinking carefully, nose crinkling from concentration. “Our relationship.”

“Oh?” Suga leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand. “Wedding bells?”

Oikawa huffed, rolling his eyes and turning away, bracing one arm on the back of the tall cafe stool. “No way, Suga-chan. Get real.”

The ashen blond laughed at the denial; he knew Oikawa’s words held no venom. “Okay, so then what?”

“I don’t know…” he shrugged, trying his damndest to feign disinterest. “There’s not really a title.”

“There’s not.” It wasn’t a question, just a repeated explanation. 

“No.”

Suga hummed. “Do you want there to be?”

“Aren’t we too old for titles, Suga-chan?” Humor lined the finest points of Oikawa’s face, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are we?” He teased as he flashed his left hand, the silver ring catching the warm tungsten lighting of the shop. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Stop asking me questions like that. I already have a therapist,” he stated dejectedly, waving a hand in front of his face.

Suga sat back in his seat, leaning against the backrest, observing Oikawa closely as he schooled his features into something a little more serious. “I’m sorry about what I said yesterday.”

This comment caught the former setter off guard, prompting him to raise his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

“I just wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’, Oikawa. I was out of line.”

“How so?”

Suga shook his head. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions when you called me. I automatically believed that you had malicious intentions when you asked about the medication. I should have asked more questions before I spoke.” He placed a slender hand over his heart, pressing it to the soft fabric of his dark green sweater. “It was uncalled for.”

Oikawa huffed; it was his turn to shake his head disapprovingly. “No, it’s okay. I should have given you more information. Why else would a drug addict ask for pills, right?”

“ _Wrong_ ,” Suga emphasized firmly, moving his hand to place it intentionally on the table, ensuring Oikawa’s rapt attention. “Clearly, you were just trying to help Wakatoshi.”

Oikawa’s expression softened as he let out a heavy breath, alleviating a little of the tension that wracked his tight shoulders. “I need to go meet him soon.”

“Dinner plans?” Suga inquired, glancing at the time on his watch. It was a little after 6 p.m.

“Yeah, he wanted to take me out after my interview. I told him we could meet up at 6:30.” The brunette stirred the last of his coffee with his black straw. “It’s our first real date.”

A wide, toothy grin pulled at that comment, Suga tilting his head to the side a little. “I guess I didn’t really think about it… I thought you had gone on one?”

“Nope,” the taller man emphasized his urgency with one last, long dramatic sip of his coffee. “Not unless you count punching Tono’s lights out in a hotel ballroom or eating ramen samples at that weirdo Satori’s new shop.”

The corners of the nurse’s eyes folded with laughter. “Do you not?”

Oikawa stood and made his way around the table, holding out his arms to embrace his dear friend. Suga hugged back, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “Go get your man, Tooru,” he punctuated with a wink.

Oikawa stepped toward the front door, pairing a flourish of his hand with a small grin. “Catch ya later, Suga-chan.” 

\---------

Ushijima fiddled with the hem of the pale blue sweater that he had so carefully layered over the white collared dress shirt underneath, coupled with his dark dress jeans and caramel brown loafers. Standing outside the restaurant, he could see the hustle and bustle of people and lights from the traffic pass by, the warmth from his breath clinging to the cold air, a visible cloud of white.

This was their real first date because ‘ _no, eating ramen samples at Tendou’s shop doesn’t count’_ , Kuroo explained in the locker room earlier that afternoon. The ace was worn out from practice on top of the emotional roller coaster that had been last night, but he made a promise and he intended on keeping it.

His thoughts had been elsewhere all of practice, thinking back to the rough and raw voice Oikawa used that night when he spoke their relationship into existence, laced with hesitance and fear, but still warmly edged with hope and promise. He couldn’t forget the way those irises widened when Ushijima asked for clarification, twin orbs seeking answers of their own, answers that the ace’s demeanor must have provided. 

“Why are you waiting out in the cold, Ushiwaka-chan?” Oikawa questioned as he made his way up the sidewalk. The taller brunette turned his head to catch the playful smile pulled across a tired, yet still handsome face, brown, manicured brows furrowed in light-hearted concern. “And where is your coat?”

Looking down at himself, Ushijima shrugged. “I brought my car, it was warm. I must have left it in there.” His explanation seemed to suffice because Oikawa moved on from the comment.

“You look nice,” he stated simply, ghosting his gloved fingers over the edge of the powder blue fabric the sweater that gathered at the ace’s broad shoulder. 

“You do, too,” Ushijima returned the compliment. Oikawa must have saved at least one outfit from the move, because he had on fitted black slacks, slender cut at the ankles, and Ushijima could see the makings of a teal button-down protruding elegantly beneath his black peacoat. 

“Thanks,” he said, a bit shyly. Ushijima, without a second thought, bent over and kissed the corner of his eye, warming the spot where a tear was clinging to porcelain skin. “Ah, sorry, the wind dries out my contacts and makes my eyes tend to water.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Oh my god, _starving_.” His laugh shook his shoulders a little.

Ushijima wrapped a large hand around Oikawa’s bicep, gently guiding him into the front of the restaurant. It was an up-scale place, a recommendation that came from Bokuto’s better half (he and Akaashi were two halves of one whole now, if the white-haired captain was to be trusted). A maitre d’ greeted them before escorting them back to their table.

“Did you make us a reservation, Ushiwaka-chan?” the former model asked coyly as he shrugged out of his coat, the taller man assisting him. A faint shade of scarlet dusted the setter’s cheekbones at the intimate and affectionate action. 

“Yes,” he replied simply, hanging the coat on the back of Oikawa’s chair before the pair settled in across from each other at the table. 

Oikawa propped his menu up, hiding his smile behind it, but Ushijima caught sight of it anyway, burning wildly behind those hazel eyes. “Such a romantic,” he huffed teasingly.

The ace only responded with a hum; it was his turn to use the menu as a means of camouflage. The pair idly pilfered through the menu, Oikawa making comments on various items that caught his eye- ‘ _duck?_ You brought me to a place that serves _duck_?’ or ‘I swear to god I better be able to substitute the asparagus for some kind of potato’ and ‘does this place bring out bread with your drinks?!’

“Would you like to see the drink menu?” asked a young waiter as he approached the table holding a little black booklet that presumably housed the list of assorted wines and liquors. Sure enough, he had a wire basket of what looked like fresh-baked bread, setting it on the table between the two men.

Ushijima shook his head, stealing a glance at the man across from him. Oikawa seemed unphased, attention still to his food menu. “No thank you, sir.”

“If you like I can make a recommendation to you based on your order. Different wines pair better with different meats and--”

“We’re Mormon.”

Ushijima and the waiter both turned to Oikawa, identical looks of confusion on their faces, while the setter propped his temple against his closed fist, leaning heavily on the table.

“Pardon?” came the waiter’s reply. Ushijima was wondering the same thing.

“Mormon.” Oikawa deadpanned. “It means we don’t drink. Two waters and some tea and then I’m gonna order a fat ass steak.” He clapped his menu shut with enough force that the sound of it caused the waiter to jump a little.

“Uh, yes sir.” The man immediately turned on his heel and took off, not looking back.

“They’re probably going to give us a different waiter now.”

Oikawa grinned a small, smarmy smile, reaching into the basket to grab a roll. “And?” he asked, gnawing on the first bite.

The ace just shook his head and laughed a little. “Mormon, huh?”

Oikawa scoffed, shrugging dismissively. “I could pair wines better than that dude ever could. He doesn’t even look old enough to serve it, let alone make a recommendation that would pass for something better than stale pisswater, Ushiwaka-chan.”

The ace gave a flat look, but it was obvious that he was equal parts amused and embarrassed. They only made small talk for a few moments until the waiter returned with their waters, and took their food and tea orders. 

Oikawa took a long sip of his drink before setting it back on the table and looking up across the booth, eyes locking on Ushijima. “I actually have something I have to tell you.”

A non-verbal reply came when Ushijima’s gaze met Oikawa’s and the mood suddenly shifted. “About your interview?” he asked slowly.

“No,” the brunette replied, nervously drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “It’s not about that. I mean, it did go well, I think.” He cleared his throat, trying to refocus his words. “But this is actually about what we discussed this morning... or last night. Or whatever time it was.”

“I meant what I said,” Ushijima interjected, reaching across the table to lay his hand over Oikawa’s, stilling the nervous tapping.

A soft, airy sigh proceeded, “I know you did. As did I.” The olympian’s large fingers curled around the pale, nimble ones resting in his palm, a gesture of reassurance. “I have something else I have to tell you before we go any further. Before we’re at this place of no return...” His voice trailed off and Ushijima felt his chest clench tighter.

“You want to break this off.” Unintentionally, he increased the pressure on Oikawa’s hand, squeezing a little too tight, causing the setter to wince, but not pull away.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, looking down at their interlocked hands. “I don’t. But if I tell you what happened, you might.”

“Is it about Hiyori?” the ace prompted, earning him a subtle shake of Oikawa’s head. “Did you use again?” Another shake. 

“It’s about… before.” Oikawa blinked rapidly, trying to keep his composure. “I… actually have a few things to confess to you.”

“I am not a priest.”

“Of course you’re not. We’re Mormon, Ushiwaka-chan.” This joke earned them both a nervous chuckle, but it did help a little to smooth the tension in the air.

“You can tell me.”

Oikawa let out a shaky exhale then gave a final nod. “I am going to ramble, but just like, give me a second when I do. Okay?”

“Okay.” Ushijima did nothing to lessen the grip on Oikawa’s hand.

“Okay,” he repeated one final time, “here’s the deal.” He closed his eyes tightly and then opened them, summoning every last bit of courage he could muster. “I ruined Iwaizumi Hajime’s wedding. I confessed that I loved him a few hours before walking down the aisle and I damn near did everything I could to keep him from getting married. Obviously, he rejected me, and I didn’t show up to the ceremony, even though I was the best man, because I was so embarrassed. But I did sneak into the venue behind the temple and get absolutely shit-faced drunk on the alcohol from the caterer. Hanamaki and Mattsun had to get me a taxi and send me home before the bride came in and found me. I guess Iwa-chan saw me, but I don’t really remember much.” 

He took a deep breath before continuing, the tips of his ears red. Whether it was from speaking so fast the breath left his lungs or from the embarrassment of having confessed his sins, it wasn’t clear. Either way, he kept his head down, too afraid to look up at Ushijima. “Then I moved in with my sister for a little bit, because how the fuck could I keep living with Iwa-chan, right? Well, she eventually kicked me out, too, because I kept stealing money from her to go get high and go to nightclubs. Ushi, I even stole from my 16-year-old nephew. Like, who fucking does that?”

A sudden, almost abrasive hush fell over the table. The only sounds that could be heard were the quiet murmurs of conversations taking place around them, accompanied by the scrapes of plates and cups on tabletops.

“And the worst sin of all... and this involves you, Ushiwaka.” He swallowed thickly, running his free hand over the back of his neck. “I stole the pills from you at your apartment because I thought you only hate-fucked me, even though that night in the hotel was easily one of the most beautiful things that ever happened to me. I think if I am really honest with myself, I tried to OD because I knew you had feelings for me, and I didn’t think I could handle them.” 

“Your food, gentlemen.” The waiter’s voice startled them, reminding them of their location, forcing their hands apart as he set their plates in front of them. 

“Thank you,” Ushijima said, dismissing the waiter. Oikawa had his face tucked into his shoulder. It was quite apparent that he was trembling, arms folded across his chest; a defense mechanism.

After a sweeping moment of silence, Ushijima spoke. “Is that all that you had to say?” he asked quietly, not an ounce of emotion in his baritone voice.

“Yeah,” Oikawa whispered, drawing his body somehow even closer. “Yeah, and now I need a fucking drink.”

“What do you expect me to say?” Ushijima inquired, leaning forward as he rested his forearms against the edge of the table. 

A discontented, annoyed ‘tsk’ contradicted the very vulnerable, very sobering expression on his pallid face. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. Though he likely intended more venom to be packed into his words, they instead came out unsure and so very weak.

“I will say this to you once, Oikawa. So I hope you will listen to me.” He did not wait for the setter’s reply before he continued. “I don’t care what kind of baggage you carry with you. I don’t tally the mistakes you have made in your past, nor do I worry about that which you cannot control. These things have made you who you are, and you have sought redemption for them. I have cared about you for far too long to allow such things to hold us back any longer. So if you would allow it, I would like us to continue on under a new slate.” He took a deep breath then added. “And that night in the hotel was the same for me, while we’re on the record.”

Several moments passed, the weight of the words settling into the air. Heavy as they may have been, they were just strong enough to cut the tethers that entrapped Oikawa, freeing his limbs from their once armored, impregnable bind. 

“I…” The surface of his eyes became glass-like, twin reflecting pools of earth tones; brassy, copper browns, and muted, mossy greens. Where they were once labored with guilt, ladened with burdens and regret and heartache, they began to shine for the very first time, overwhelmed instead with something else, something akin to tenderness and gratitude and freedom. He brought the back of his hand to his trembling pink lips, quivering with emotion, stifling the sob that threatened to tear up his throat. “I don’t know if I deserve that.”

“Who I am that I should deny you forgiveness? Who am I that I can judge the walk you have so wearily trekked alone?” Ushijima raised a hand to place it on Oikawa’s once more, slowly lowering it away from his face. “I am no more deserving than you, but also, no less.”

“You’re a good man, Wakatoshi,” the setter whispered as he brought the ace’s hand back up to his face, nuzzling the palm ever so gently, as if he was worried that should he press too hard, the moment would break, shatter to the floor.

“Am I even a man at all?” he countered, referencing their kitchen conversation just less than a day ago, voice wavering as he asked, showing the first emotion since the dinner began.

“Of course you are,” Oikawa laughed, shutting his eyes and taking a long breath, iron-clad grasp still on Ushijima. “You’re my man.” When his eyes came open again, they had transformed once more; half-lidded, lust-filled, brimming with possession and just a touch of tenderness.

“Would you like to get our food to go?” It was a silly question, considering their overly-priced dinners had sat untouched, turning cold during their heartfelt conversation. 

“Forget the food,” Oikawa stated firmly, pulling himself from the booth and pawing for his coat. Ushijima took the hint, scrambling to pull more than enough yen from his wallet and throwing it on the clothed tabletop. He stood as well, grasping Oikawa’s hand once more, leading them out of the restaurant. 1t was like Deja Vu of that night that seemed like a lifetime ago, not a month. 

As they careened down the street, light snow fell from the sky, catching in their hair, the faintest dusting of white powder. Enough had gathered that their footsteps were marked on the sidewalk, imprints side-by-side, evidence that they were walking hand-in-hand.

As they headed toward Ushijima’s parked car, the roaring continued in the ace’s chest, pounding in his ears. He hit the key fob and the lights flashed as the doors unlocked, each man climbing in their respective seats. As soon as their doors closed, they crashed into each other across the console, a collision of warm, wet mouths and over-zealous hands, lips and noses cold from the winter air. 

“Will you come with me somewhere?” the ace asked as he pulled away, the action eliciting a whine from the shorter man.

“Where?” Oikawa asked, climbing across the middle, straddling his knees on either side of Ushijima. Suddenly, the olympian had never been more grateful that he had spent the extra several thousand yen it had cost to tint the windows as dark as possible. Tendou had teased him saying he looked like a Yakuza member in a murdered out Mercedes. While the Yakuza were definitely doing illegal, illicit things in their cars, Ushijima entertained the thought that it wasn’t likely they were doing _this_.

“The team goes on vacation,” his words were cut off briefly by smothering kisses, “like a break. Next month--” his train of thought derailed when Oikawa began fumbling with the olympian’s belt buckle, causing him to hiss in anticipation. “Ah- shit.”

“What are you asking of me, Ushiwaka-chan?” the slender brunette inquired, biting at the tender expanse of tan flesh at his neck. 

“Come with me.” He firmly grasped Oikawa’s shoulders, stilling him, forcing him to look up and meet his eye. “Come away with me for a bit.”

The shorter man leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on waiting lips. “Okay,” he said softly, his breath warm. “I’ll go wherever with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of your love, comments, and kudos. We're getting closer and closer to the end, and I can't believe it. I started a new DaiSuga domestic fluff type story that I would love for you to check out. I will update that one a little slower until this one is finished, but I would love if you checked it out! You guys are my OG readers that deserve all the love first! Please keep in mind I don't have a beta editor, so I hope this nonsense comes out as somewhat coherent nonsense.  
> Stay safe and well!
> 
> [Oikawa's Song for Hiyori](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KhjTa_7Nq6Y) \-- guys, this song was played on *repeat* while writing some of the heaviest sciences between Oikawa and Hiyori. I feel like it really explains their relationship and I hope it adds another dimension between them that you hadn't seen before. It also works because the title is 'July' and that's Oikawa's bday month. I meant to share it before but never did. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter and how you liked the song!
> 
> Next time: in the words of 'Black Clover', "obligatory hot spring episode" (plus some feels)


	13. Written in the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait on this one, guys! I hope you like this chapter. Buckle up, because it's fluffy AF. See you nerds at the bottom.

“So you’re leaving this afternoon for your trip. That must be exciting.” Dr. Anzai was a middle-aged man, with salt and pepper gray hair and long legs that he liked to cross from his perch across from Oikawa. He wasn’t traditionally handsome; he had a round face and even rounder glasses, but he was kind, always wearing solid colored dress slacks and soft looking sweaters. He gave off a vibe that relaxed Oikawa. They had been having sessions for almost eight weeks now, since the former setter exited the hospital, and they were helping tremendously. 

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Oikawa agreed, running his fingers through his chestnut hair. He found that he fidgeted more, now that he was sober, a need to constantly operate his hands and feet to help counter the incessant vibrating he often felt in his limbs. He wondered if it would die down with time, if he would go back to being his old self soon, one that didn’t need to placate every beck and call his nervous system made in order to feel normal.

“Are you nervous?” The doctor tapped the end of his pen against his yellow-lined notebook. 

“A bit,” the patient admitted, crossing his own legs. “I’ve never gone out on vacation like this with someone before.”

“You deserve to get away for a bit.” 

Oikawa laughed. “I guess so.”

“How is your job at the gallery going? You have the first few weeks under your belt. Are you settling in?” 

“Mhmm,” the former setter hummed, leaning forward on the gray couch. Everything in the therapist’s office was soothing: tones of grays and blues, cool colors meant to bring peace and tranquility, to create a space that was inviting and gentle. “The owners are very kind to let me have some time off even though I just started.”

“That is quite kind,” Dr. Anzai agreed. “Do you plan on taking your photography equipment with you on the trip?”

“It would be a bit silly not to, wouldn’t it?” Oikawa countered. “I haven’t been up to the mountains like that since I was a kid when I went with my family. I could probably take a lot of great pictures.”

“So it’ll be a nature trip, yes?”

Oikawa nodded. “Yeah, and apparently that Ushiwaka-chan thinks he’s so romantic by renting out a hot spring for us.” He let out a puff of air, all for show. It  _ was _ romantic, Oikawa knew that. It was romantic and sweet and sounded absolutely perfect and he hated that his boyfriend was this thoughtful, endearing man and all Oikawa could manage to be was sassy and critical.

The doctor chuckled, scratching something down in his notebook. “I think it sounds romantic.”

“Of course you do, you don’t know Ushijima like I do.” Rolling his hazel eyes was basically Oikawa’s favorite hobby. “He’s gonna be like, ‘Oikawa, I hope you find this onsen to be suitable.’” He made his voice deep, almost robotic sounding, giving his therapist quite a poor impersonation of the olympian. 

“You said he can be a bit forward,” the doctor acknowledged with a soft chuckle, clearly a little amused by Oikawa’s antics. It was probably because he knew that imitation was the highest form of flattery, and if the couple knew each other well enough to make impersonations and poke kind jest at one another, they were likely in good shape. “But you also said it was one of the things you appreciated about him. You like his honesty.”

Oikawa looked away, down at his shoes, taking a moment for quiet contemplation. It was a mixed bag, his feelings about Ushiwaka, and his uncanny ability to speak with such candor. The man didn’t sugar coat anything, never once. He was totally opposite from Hiyori in that regard, in almost every regard, really. He didn’t lie or manipulate or mince words. Oikawa remembered that day after their own loss to Karasuno when the ace lectured him about his foolish pride. Ushijima had always treated him this way, never wavering. He was a bit brutish in his delivery, but he was always well-intentioned. 

“I like it and I dislike it,” Oikawa admitted after his brief silence as he mulled things over.

“It’s different.” It’s not stated as a question, but merely an observation.

“Indeed it is.”

“Different isn’t always bad,” the therapist pointed out.

“Hmm,” he hummed, thinking. “Ushiwaka doesn’t change.”

“Do you want him to?” 

The brunette shook his head. “I guess not.”

“You’re used to things being uneasy, volatile. That’s how things were with Hiyori, from what you’ve said. And while you haven’t talked a lot about Iwaizumi, I would gather to understand that you’re likely afraid of Ushijima’s steadiness because it reminds you of your childhood friend. Except, things are different this time around because Ushijima returns your feelings, does he not?” Dr. Anzai leaned a little forward in his seat, lowering his tone, “or is that what scares you?”

Oikawa had never felt reciprocated love before, at least not in the romantic sense. He spent the bulk of his life pining for his best friend, and once he confessed, that blew up in his face. Then along came Hiyori, who took his fragility and insecurities and manifested off of them, creating a toxic, unstable mess that only snowballed into one-night-stands and casual sex that only further eroded his self-esteem. 

But Ushijima changed that. Even through all of the muck and mire and the difficulties, his childhood rival saw through it, directly into Oikawa. He was willing to look past it and dig out the real Tooru, with zero regards for the hardened and indecisive layers that awaited him. He would never admit it out loud, but Ushijima was like a knight in shining armor in this sense: he was brave and strong and altruistic. 

“What if I can’t love him back?” Oikawa asked finally, the words lingering in his mouth, souring his taste buds. 

“Do you not love him now?”

His eyes felt glassy, the pressure building just behind his skull. “I…” he started, then stopped, voice cracking a little as he spoke. “I’m not sure I know how to love another person.”

“He seems like an eager teacher.”

Oikawa smiled softly, deterring his tears for another day. “He does, doesn’t he?”

\------------

Oikawa packed a lot. Ushijima had specifically told him he wouldn’t need much for their four-day trip, but the setter seemed to think otherwise. They had gone shopping a few days ago for luggage and essentials for hiking and to replenish Oikawa’s wardrobe that he had destroyed. It was nice, shopping with the brunette. The ace didn’t think spending time doing simple things like hunting for hiking supplies and clothes at the mall would be fun, but it was, probably just because being with the setter was fun. He had a bright smile and his jokes were funny and Ushijima even liked his haughty, sarcastic comments. 

When all the bags were loaded in the trunk of his Mercedes, Ushijima shut it and leaned against the car, awaiting his boyfriend, because that’s what he was now: his boyfriend. The air was cool, as it was still late March, but the fresh spring air would be gorgeous, and so refreshing, once they got up to the mountains. And it would be just chilly enough to properly enjoy all that the hot spring had to offer.

“Ushiwaka-chan, did you grab my small bag off the bathroom counter?” Oikawa called as he exited the apartment building, approaching the car that was idling in front of it. 

“I did,” he replied simply.

“The teal one?” Oikawa asked, zipping up his new black athletic jacket.

“The one that has your makeup in it?” 

Oikawa looked mortified. “Shh! Don’t say that so loudly!” He stuck a harsh finger to his lips to signal the ace to ‘shush’. Yes, Oikawa wore makeup sometimes. Nothing crazy, just a little concealer and eye cream on days he wasn’t feeling his best. The other night he had put on mascara for the first time and it about made Ushijima breathless when he saw Oikawa’s beautiful, dark lashes look so exaggerated and sultry around his stunning hazel eyes. But Oikawa would absolutely  _ die _ if anyone knew he wore makeup; it was a secret he was determined to bring to his grave.

The ace shrugged. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But it doesn’t bother me that you wear it. I think you look nice in it.”

A flick of his wrist and small twirl of his hand was given in a show of forgiveness and feigned irritation. “Yeah, yeah,” he stated, acting only a little slighted. “Can we go now?” He slid his Aviator sunglasses down from their resting spot in his hair and positioned them on his angular face. 

Ushijima gave a sweet smile along with a nod, leaning down to open the passenger car door for his boyfriend. The setter offered him a little peck on the cheek before lowering into the leather seat. Ushijima shut the door to his car with a flutter in his heart.

The car ride was peaceful, the tires on the road a quiet hum. Oikawa had played music for a little bit, making chatter about the trails they should hit and talking about the types of photos he wanted to take. It was a three-hour drive, and Ushijima knew that Tooru had gone to therapy that morning, a task that usually left him a little drained. So when the larger man suggested he take a nap and rest his eyes, the setter obliged, arms folded across his chest and eyes closed, long lashes resting on his cheeks.

The ace was excited, truly, but at his core, nervous butterflies filled his chest, his anxiety creeping and attempting to get the best of him. Things with them had changed since their conversation over dinner that night. They no longer danced around each other, no longer avoiding the hard conversations. If Ushijima felt anxiety plague his body, he spoke to Oikawa about it, baring his insecurities while the smaller man just listened, ready with soft kisses and comforting touches, because the physical connection meant more to Ushijima then words ever would. And when Oikawa felt the need to relapse or woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare about Hiyori, he crawled into the ace’s large arms and cried, soothed in turn, feeling so at peace. 

Since Oikawa had never mentioned the three words Ushijima had passionately whispered to him after the second time they made love, the ace knew he never actually heard them; the setter had been too blissed out to comprehend, or even hear them. And now, his anxiety was spurred on by the fact he was going to say them for real, intentionally, while on their trip. He was going to make sure Oikawa heard them. 

It wasn’t a proposal, but he had something planned all the same. It was an idea he held in his heart for as long as he could remember. He wanted everything to be perfect, because Oikawa deserved it. To Ushijima, there was no one more deserving on earth.

“Oikawa, we are here,” the ace stated, placing a large hand on the setter’s knee, shaking him awake. Oikawa stirred briefly, scrunching his face as he sat up, blinking bleary, tired, and combing down his messy hair with nimble fingers.

“Already?” he half-yawned. The sun was going down, the dull traces of evening sunlight painting the onsen in warm oranges and yellows. Twilight wasn’t far behind them.

“Yes.” Ushijima put the car in park and killed the engine, though it was hardly noticeable - the Mercedes barely made a sound, even when running.

“Is this the place?” Oikawa rubbed his eyes, but whether it was from surprise or in an attempt to clear away the sleep was still to be determined.

“It is.” The ace stepped out of the car, popping the trunk with the key fob as he did so, Oikawa exiting his side as well. On his face was a bright smile, tired eyes soft from sleep but still beaming. 

“Shit, Ushiwaka-chan, this is gorgeous!” The little building sat just up the incline of a hill, the bulk of the mountains visible behind it, a stone pathway leading toward the entrance. The exterior was traditional, wooden, but still solid. The northern foliage surrounded it, tall trees that were just gaining their spring buds. It was truly a getaway, an oasis from the concrete Tokyo.

Oikawa followed the stone steps, pulling his athletic jacket closer to his frame as he shivered a little. He had a frame now, much to Ushijima’s pleasure, that was a little thicker than a few months ago, more filled out, healthier. His newly rounded hips gave Ushijima more leverage, something heartier to hold onto than hollowed-out hip bones. His thighs were a bit meatier, more solid, and delicious. And that  _ ass _ , Ushijima couldn’t help watching it as Oikawa stayed just a few steps ahead of him, the perfect height on the incline of the hill. It was just a bit fatter, just a bit sweeter to bite into, now that Tooru ate like a normal person. No, he wasn’t fat, not in the slightest. In fact, Oikawa worked out almost daily at their apartment complex’s gym. He had just been so thin before, deprived because of his addiction and model’s diet, that now he practically glowed from the fifteen pounds he had put on. Ushijima could never tell him this, but he even adored the way his face filled out, making it a little bit rounder.

“How do we get in?” Oikawa asked almost impatiently as he reached the porch, seeming to forget he left his boyfriend to carry all the bags. Though Ushijima actually didn’t mind, not one bit.

“I have the code,” the taller man replied, lowering their luggage onto the porch so he could retrieve his phone. He had screenshot the email for quick reference, in case their cell service was shotty.

“Wait, is this our own private house?”

Ushijima nodded as he typed in the four-digit code, the digital lock undoing and pressing the front door open and flipping the light on. “Each house has its own hot spring in the back. The main house is a bit back down the mountain. We can eat there at some point, they do have a restaurant.”

“This is incredible.” The ace couldn’t help but feel a bit warmed by all of Oikawa’s praise as they stepped further into the house. The rental had been a bit expensive, but it was absolutely worth it just to see his boyfriend smile like that, like he used to. It was a smile he was seeing more often, but still not often enough. He wanted Oikawa to wear it all the time.

The house was small, but it was private. It opened up into a living room that bled over into a kitchenette and dining room, minimalistic and modestly decorated, but it was lovely all the same. Off to the right was a door, which Ushijima could only guess led to the bedroom and en suite bath. It was the perfect size for their short trip.

“I am glad you find it to your liking, Tooru,” Ushijima stated, pushing the luggage just inside so he could pull the door shut.

He was taken aback, slightly, when arms wrapped around his neck and he felt his back collide firmly with the wall behind him. Hot, sweet lips pressed against his, tasting now so familiar and pliable and bold and every bit like Oikawa. 

“Wakatoshi,” he growled, voice ablaze with need and something a little carnal. “Show me the bedroom.”

The ace didn’t need any further instruction before cupping his boyfriend’s ass, lifting him, and carrying him to the direction of the bedroom door.

\------------------

“A night drive?” Oikawa asked, thoughtfully chewing over his third onigiri, stuffed with grilled salmon. “You’ve been keeping us really busy this trip, Ushiwaka-chan.”

The setter was only teasing, but they had actually had a relatively busy vacation thus far. The first day, Oikawa’s insistence to ‘christen’ the various furniture in the house left them both exhausted and sleeping well into the afternoon when they finally paused only to nap. Then, once up, they prepared lunch together before embarking on a short hike that afternoon, though it had rained a bit, prompting them back to their cottage for dinner and a round in their own private hot spring. Oikawa couldn’t find it himself to even be remotely embarrassed at how he howled Ushijima’s name in a way that echoed off the trees and cliffs that thankfully gave the onsen all the privacy they needed.

On the second day, the storm clouds cleared and they hiked a few trails, Oikawa taking his camera to capture lots of pictures of birds and plants and trees. The stream that ran down the mountain was gorgeous, the water cool from the snow melting high on the peaks. They picnicked at one stop, enjoying the view the higher they got to the top. When they came back down, a dip in the hot spring was more than called for, as their muscles were sore and they were winded, completely exerted.

And while they didn’t have sex that night, they kissed slow and unhurried, naked and holding each other in the warm water until they nearly fell asleep in the spring. That meant more than sex did to Ushijima, at least. Because it was intimacy, proof that just being able to hold each other at the end of the day was all they really needed.

On the third day, they voyaged back down the mountain to visit the charming little village that sat at the base, opting for an easier day, excited to be free from Tokyo where they were both usually easily recognized: Ushijima as ‘The Black Ace’ by sports enthusiasts and Oikawa was often spotted by fangirls even though he hadn’t been active in modeling for a few months. These things only added to their stress, especially when out together.

But here in the peaceful village, they could move freely. While they didn’t hold hands or show affection like they did in private, they were still able to have fun and enjoy each other’s company. They bought souvenirs from one of the local shops and even paid a visit to one of the small shrines, where they prayed for each other; Oikawa for Ushijima’s certain victory and protection from injury and Ushijimia prayed for Oikawa’s happiness and serenity. Neither man shared with the other what their prayers had consisted of. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow, and this isn’t a far drive,” Ushijima explained. They hadn’t been back to the onsen long since their trek into town, but Ushijima was very anxious to make sure the plan was in place. “I will take us there. The clouds should be cleared off by then.”

To this comment, Oikawa lowered his eyebrows in curiosity. “Oh?” he asked. “Are you taking me stargazing?”

The ace schooled his features - Oikawa knew the giant, stoic bastard was good at that - and put on his best poker face. “We shall see,” was all the more information he allotted as he rose to his feet, placing a kiss on the crown of Oikawa’s head. The shorter man hummed happily, catching his boyfriend’s wrist, pulling him down into a real kiss.

“Thank you,” he whispered, lifting hazel orbs to meet those breathtaking golden-brown ones he had felt himself falling for. 

“For what?” Ushijima asked, lightly grabbing Oikawa’s chin so he could run a thumb across his quivering bottom lip.

Oikawa swallowed thickly, eyes moving to a half-lidded gaze. “For bringing me here, Waka-chan.”

Ushijima could not keep the smile from his own face when he replied, ‘you’re welcome’, capturing those sweet lips with his once more.

\------------

“Have you ever driven up here before?” Oikawa asked, a bit wary. They hadn’t been driving long, but the paved road was narrow as they made their way a bit higher up the mountain. Ushijima had assured him that there was a parking overlook and that their journey would be safe and likely secluded, given that it wasn’t the popular tourist season yet.

So Oikawa did as he was told - he packed snacks and plenty of blankets and various other supplies before choosing to bundle up in their warmest coats, since the spring night air was still quite cool and the high altitude only made it all the colder. It had been nice during the day, not too chilly, just enough to make the excuse to lean into the ace and seek his warmth at every turn when he thought they wouldn’t be seen.

Oikawa rested his slender hand on Ushijima’s thigh, running his fingers absentmindedly over the coarse fabric of his jeans, eyes turned to watch the forest pass as he drove. It didn’t take long, just as the olympian had promised, the Mercedes pulling into a tiny paved spot that passed as a makeshift parking lot. And again, just as promised, it was empty, the expensive car the only one occupying the space.

Ushijima wordlessly stepped out before grabbing the small duffel bag that Oikawa had packed up for them, as well as his own backpack he had put together. He threw them both over his shoulder and waited for Oikawa to meet up with him, his eager hand extended back behind him. Shutting the passenger door, the setter caught up, interlocking their fingers as they walked. A grassy knoll was just a few paces ahead, situated down and away from the vehicle overlook, positioned so that it was high enough above the treeline, giving them a beautiful view of the scene below. It was dark, sure, but the light of the crescent moon was just bright enough that they could make out the trees and lake below, glittering beneath pale white light.

“Wow,” was all Oikawa could manage to spit out as he lowered himself to sit on the grass.

“Wait,” Ushijima prompted, catching his arm. “Just a moment.” He didn’t explain further, only unzipped the duffel bag, and grabbed a blanket before fanning it out on the grass and smoothing it down. Once he was done, he gestured for Oikawa to sit once more, and he obliged.

“Aren’t you sitting, too?” Oikawa asked, eyes glancing up to where Ushijima stood, a bit stiff, almost as if he was unsure how to proceed. 

He only nodded before taking his place beside the brunette. They stretched out their legs and Oikawa leaned his head down, resting it on Ushijima’s shoulder. “It’s really lovely out here,” he remarked, eyes glued to the sky. “There are so many stars.”

“There are.”

“Did you know that I love stuff like this?” Oikawa asked, voice quiet to match the atmosphere; they felt so small in the context of where they sat, a whole world below them, and countless worlds above them. He lifted a hand lazily to gesture to the seemingly-infinite expanse overhead. “The stars and the sky and space?”

“I did.”

Oikawa laughed a little. “Was it that obvious or are you just observant?” 

“I like to watch you,” he explained dully, as if it were just that simple.

“That was just a rhetorical question, Ushiwaka,” he chided playfully, acting annoyed. “Oh wow, you can see so many constellations!” His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness since leaving the car, and the longer they sat there, the more they could see. 

“Do you know some of them?”

“Tch, do I?” Oikawa elbowed Ushijima gently as if to scold him for asking such a silly question.

“I know two,” Ushijima stated, earning him a surprised side-eye from his boyfriend.

“What, the Little and Big Dippers?” Oikawa teased.

Ushijima paused a moment, thinking. “Okay, so I know four.”

This really made the setter laugh, holding his taut stomach as the musical sound echoed around them. “Alright, so lay ‘em on me. What  _ other  _ two do you know?”

“Cassiopeia and Cepheus,” he explained, bringing an index finger to point upward. The sky was huge, so vast that night and littered with twinkling stars that looked like tiny diamonds held to the sun, dotting an otherwise ink-black ocean above them. Oikawa knew many constellations, as he had spent most of his life being fascinated by the night sky. And there, following the line of Ushijima’s pointing, he could see the unmistakable ‘M’ hanging high above their heads. It was a noteworthy constellation, the names pulled from Greek mythology. 

“That’s a great story,” Oikawa nodded, trying his damndest to not sound as impressed as he was. “A love story.”

“Yes,” Ushijima acknowledged. “A King and his Queen.”

“That Queen Cassiopeia was a real ego-maniac,” Oikawa puffed, recalling the tale. While mythology wasn’t his favorite subject, he had taken the time to learn the stories that tied into the stars. Cassiopeia was an egotistical and foolish woman who had challenged everyone, even Hera, by saying that she was the most gorgeous woman who ever lived, even more beautiful than the Queen of the Gods herself. These claims angered Hera, and in turn, her husband Zeus. Zeus punished Cassiopeia and turned her into the stars as a form of imprisonment, banishing her from their world. In his devastation, King Cepheus begged Zeus to turn him into stars, too. Zeus granted him this wish, the married couple destined to spend all eternity locked together in the sky, embraced in the form of an ‘M’. “She thought she was the most beautiful creature to grace the earth.”

“Perhaps to her husband, she was.” Oikawa raised his eyes once more, intrigued as the ace continued. “And if he had treated her better, she would not have had to seek validation from these outside sources. If he had paid attention to her and worshiped her accordingly, instead of dedicating his time to pointless endeavors, his Queen would have felt truly beautiful.” It was true, according to the legend, Cepheus wasn’t a bad man, necessarily, he just enjoyed spending time with his friends and drinking and hunting rather than at home with his beloved wife, leaving her to feel neglected and unworthy.

“But then they wouldn’t have been written in the stars together,” Oikawa added, heart hammering in his chest for a reason he couldn’t explain. “So they perhaps got a happy ending, after all.”

“Perhaps,” Ushijima stated, shifting so he could grab his backpack and pull it closer, unzipping the largest pouch and then pausing. He looked conflicted, and despite everything they were seeing above them and around them, Oikawa couldn’t remove his gaze from the larger man. 

Another few moments passed before the setter finally asked, “what is it?” He sounded nervous, almost afraid. Something had shifted while they had their conversation and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

“I have something for you.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened. What would Ushijima give him way out here in the middle of nowhere? “What is it?” he repeated, unable to think of a different response.

Much to Oikawa’s surprise, Ushijima pulled out a small telescope, no bigger than an empty paper towel roll, and handed it over. “I want you to look at something.”

Oikawa furrowed his brows but accepted the device all the same. The metal felt cold, even thru his gloved fingers. “What do you want me to look at?”

The ace looked up at him, golden eyes narrowing as he conjured the right words. “Hold it to your eye and I will direct you.”

All though skeptical, Oikawa obliged, deciding to trust his boyfriend. He held the telescope to his eye and peered through it. This view was already breathtaking, but when seeing the sky through the magnifying lens, it was something else entirely. To Oikawa, peering into the heavens was soul-rendering, moving in a way he failed to completely comprehend. He should have felt small and insignificant, just a fleck of matter in an unfathomably endless expanse of creation. But instead, he felt truly alive, bones formed of stardust and blood overfilled with the celestial presence he craved. Every fiber of his being felt relevant and meaningful and intentional; there in the presence of cosmos, seated next to Ushijima, he mattered. He was comprised of purpose; a man of substance.

"If you look just to the left of the third interior star, you will see it," Ushijima explained. "Just inside the constellation, where the King and the Queen meet."

"What am I seeing?" Oikawa whispered near breathless.

"It’s your star."

"Mine?" Oikawa lowered the telescope to turn and face Ushijima, wide-eyed, hazel irises twin pools of confusion and curiosity. 

Ushijima reached in his backpack one last time, this instance producing what appeared to be a picture frame, though it was hard to tell in the dark. "What is this?"

The ace pulled his cellphone from his jacket pocket, using the blue light from his lock screen to illuminate the gift just enough for Oikawa to see that a certificate was housed in the small glass frame. The words read ‘Star Delta 782-E has been renamed in honor of Oikawa Tooru’. 

"This..." the setter started, then stopped, unsure of what else to say.

"The star just inside Cepheus and Cassiopeia is named for you."

"Wakatoshi..." he whispered, running his gloved fingers over the smooth texture of the glass, clearly dazed at what was happening. He read the text three more times before he looked up to see Ushijima's soft expression.

"Perhaps if I had told you sooner that you were worthy of love, and that you were beautiful, instead of being critical of your choices, you wouldn't have had to seek validation from others." He reached out and grabbed Oikawa's free hand, holding it firmly between his own, smoothing a thumb over his knuckles. "Perhaps if I had come out forthright and just told you 'I love you' instead of saying you should have come to school with me, I could have done more, kept you from getting hurt. Because I do love you, Tooru. I have loved you for a very long time."

Time slowed then, the cold wind that ruffled his chocolate hair went unnoticed, as did the numbness in his fingers from the chill in the air, the roaring of his heart in his ears was just an after thought. All of his senses quieted as he met that familiar gaze in the dark, locking eyes with the golden orbs he had come to call home. 

Just as Ushijima was beginning to lighten his hold on Oikawa's hand, he squeezed back, pulling his boyfriend into a kiss that was bruising and all-consuming and rushed; the definition of passionate. Lips met and mouths opened, greeting each other as if for the first time. Everything tasted different, like his world had been bathed in color, monochromatic no longer.

Gloved hands worked into olive locks as his senses rushed back to him, pulling and tugging, never feeling quite close enough to the ace. “‘Toshi,” he whispered the nickname against swollen lips, pulling away only so he could speak the words he had harbored in his heart for far too long, “I love you too, Wakatoshi.”

The rest was a blur from there, hands moving, groping, touching, exploring as if they had never done such a thing before. Tongues slide over teeth, colliding in a way that felt cosmic, surrounded by nothing but starlight and infinity and the knowledge that nothing could separate them, not at that moment. 

“Take me to the car,” Oikawa commanded, voice low and thick with lust and want, ragged with panting breath. Ushijima wasted not time to oblige, quickly gathering their bags and blanket as they hustled up the slope

They ascended the hill, hand in hand once more, a blistering grin plastered on Oikwa’s face. His cheeks burned from the cold wind catching the tears he didn’t realize had shed, biting at his own wet lips chapping under the cool air. Once they reached the vehicle and the bags were set inside the back seat, Ushijima turned only to be met with Oikawa’s mouth once more. Their movements were quick, the pace urgent as the setter pushed Ushijima heavily against the car, the force so blunt that it rocked the Mercedes a little at the connection.

“Get in the passenger seat,” the shorter brunette instructed, grabbing the door handle and shoving the larger man once again, a feat that should have been difficult given his weight and size, but lust and want was a powerful thing. The ace settled into the dark leather, only able to watch as Oikawa climbed on top of him, slamming the car door and trapping them both inside. The world was bathed in darkness, black and quiet and still, the only sound coming from their labored breathing and thundering hearts.

“Tell me again, Ushiwaka.” He couldn’t believe the words he had heard now that the initial moment had passed. He could see it in his head, the way his eyes soften as he said it, handsome face illuminated by pale moonlight. But he needed to hear them again, just one more time, just to be certain.

Ushijima brought his hands to cup Oikawa’s face, running his thumbs over the wet and warm cheeks, capturing the last of the moisture that had pooled there. “I love you, Tooru.”

“Just once more,” he sobbed, words breaking as they left his lungs and met the cold air.

“I love you.”

Connecting, falling, crashing, molding; two forces becoming one. That’s all they were, a true stellar collision that rivaled the majesty of the heavens above them. Where one began and the other ended, it wasn’t abundantly clear. But it didn’t matter, because that’s where they wanted to be.

“Take me,” Oikawa whispered, undoing the heavy belt buckle of Ushijima’s jeans, sliding them down thick thighs, painting heavy purple marks along the dark skin the covered the long column of his neck. 

“I can’t, I’ll hurt you,” Ushijima countered, though his deep voice sounded conflicted, laden with desire as he brought his own hands to grasp and paw at the luscious ass placed so conveniently in his lap. “We don’t have--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Oikawa explained, grabbing the left hand he loved so much, slipping two thick fingers into his mouth, weaving his tongue between them, lathering them all the way to the knuckle. Ushijima only sat back, watching completely dazed. While his mouth stayed occupied, Oikawa sat up a little, sliding his own sweatpants down, freeing himself. He removed Ushijima’s fingers with a loud, lewd pop that would make a porn star blush before guiding them to his eager entrance.

They burned upon entry, a hot pressure that only ignited his desire to continue, to have Ushijima push further until he was completely enveloped, mind, body, and soul. After just a few thrusts, Oikawa was whimpering, nails digging craters into the ace’s shoulders. “More,” he cried as a third finger met the other two, fire crawling from somewhere deep inside of him, igniting his veins like a hot knife dragged over his nervous system. 

“Oikawa--”

“Don’t stop, Ushiwaka - I swear to God if you fucking stop I will -,” but he was unable to complete his threat because he got  _ exactly _ what he wanted: his prostate massaged by exploring and eager fingers. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he moaned, the expletive sounding all the more vulgar in the confined space, echoing off the glass windows. “Ugh, please, just do it.” Looking down the bridge of his nose through long lashes and half-lidded eyes, Oikawa told Ushijima the last words he needed to hear. “Please let me ride you.”

The aces hands moved to bruise hipbones, lifting the setter a little so he could align him with his throbbing dick, eager to connect and claim what was finally his, now in every way that mattered, in a way that no one could take away. 

A searing hiss left Oikawa as he lowered himself on the ace, growling with hunger and need as the girth stretched him, tears slipping from his eyes, cascading down his cheekbones, a physical manifestation of the pain and pleasure and validation that overflowed from his chest. He couldn’t speak, only press his nails harder into the material of Ushijiima’s jacket as he groaned and cried and uttered incoherent nonsense that almost sounded like the other man’s name.

“I’m hurting you,” Ushijima couldn’t keep the fear from his words as he watched the cold sweat break out across his lover’s forehead, a grimace transfixed on his otherwise beautiful face. 

“No,” he shook his head wildly in denial as he began to thrust himself upward, then back down, bouncing heavily on the Ushijima’s member. Breathlessly he countered, “this is perfect.” 

“You’re perfect,” Ushijima offered in response, pupils were blown wide from bliss and lust as Oikawa fucked himself on Ushijima. The ace leaned forward, capturing the other’s mouth. It didn’t take long at that pace, Oikawa’s eager thrusting paired with their impassioned kissing for the heat to coil in both of their loins, a loaded spring ready to explode.

“I’ve got you,” Ushijima whispered, bringing his powerful left hand to pump Oikawa, the sensitive, flush member had gone neglected the entire time. “Come for me.”

Oikawa shuddered as he released, wasting no time to do as he was told, throwing his head back, his lover’s name burning on his lips as it ripped through his lungs. At the sight, Ushijima could hold back no longer, spilling into the setter, blinding heat scorching, turning his organs to liquid.

And as the shorter man fell forward, his forehead crashing into the ace’s shoulder, Ushijima was able to say confidently, with reckless abandon, “I love you so much, Tooru.”

And all was right with the world when Oikawa replied through a hushed and hoarse whisper, “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I hope you guys are in your feels because I sure am. I wrote this while rewarching Season 3 with my husband, and let me just tell you, Ushijima could slap me as hard as he wanted with his left hand and I would say "Thank you".
> 
> But seriously, thank you for all of your kind comments and kudos! They really mean a lot. We have a bit more story left, no worries. Probably another 5 or so chapters, but we will see how it turns out. Sorry for the delay in this, I started writing a fluffy AU domestic DaiSuga and then I wrote a super dark Levi/Erwin (AOT) one-shot that is now a two-shot (that even a thing??) Anyway, if those sound up your alley and you like my hot garbage fire writing, feel free to check those out, too. Writing is honestly the only thing giving my borderline alcoholism any credibility. 
> 
> And to read more about the constellation I used, feel free to check out more info [ here.](https://www.twincities.com/2019/02/10/sky-watch-these-royal-constellations-bring-romance-to-the-night-sky/) It's a TL;DR version which I thought was kind of fun.
> 
> Okay, last thing. If you guys want to follow me on TikTok (lol wtf?), you can see my stupid Haikyuu TikToks - @_autumnlynn42 . Fair warning I also rant about my husband and being lactose intolerant. 
> 
> Catch ya on the flip side, pancakes!!


	14. Five Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I am so sorry for the delay in this chapter. I pumped out the first 70 ish percent of this story so fast that I caught up to my brain and my ideas and I had to take a break. I can't promise how regular it will be updated, but just know that we have about 4 or so chapters left. I know this chapter isn't perfect, but I hope you like it anyway!! Thank you for your patience, love, and support! I will have a very personal note at the bottom. Love to you all!

“Oikawa said he did not want me to attend.”

Suga blinked up at the stoic man and breathed a heavy sigh. He had been anticipating that this was going to be tough to explain, but it never ceased to amaze him how speaking with Ushijima was like conversing with a brick wall. “Oikawa says a lot of things he doesn’t mean. You need to understand that sometimes when your boyfriend says he doesn’t want you to do something, he _actually_ wants you to do said thing.”

Ushijima turned to Daichi who looked extremely exasperated. “I do not understand. Why wouldn’t he just tell me that he wanted me to attend? Wouldn’t that be simpler?”

The brunette police officer opened his mouth to speak, but then immediately closed it, as Suga had started talking again. “Sure, but it’s a test!”

“A test?” Ushijima repeated, still not following the blonde nurse’s train of thought. He was good at exams and usually passed them easily all through high school and college. If there was something he didn’t understand, he simply studied until he had a firm grasp on the topic- he would read books, watch documentaries, highlight sections of research papers. So if Oikawa was testing him, surely he could pass this, too.

“That’s right!” Suga nodded, reaching beside him to squeeze Daichi’s bicep. The trio was seated at a coffee shop near the Olympic training center, Ushijima on his way to practice. Suga had arranged the date, citing that they needed a ‘talk’. Oikawa was at work, giving them the opportunity to have their discussion in private and away from the former setter’s prying ears.

“What am I being tested on?” Ushijima asked, raising a thick brow on his forehead. It was late spring now and the Tokyo Olympics were fast approaching. Their diets had all been modified, and the former national captain couldn’t have caffeine, so he opted for a bottle of flavored nutrient water. Apparently, this had been a difficult transition for some of his teammates, especially Bokuto, who cited the absolute ‘need’ for Red Bull. 

“Honey, can you please elaborate for him?” Suga inquired, turning to face his spouse. 

Daichi rubbed at the back of his neck and took a deep breath. “Well, you see…” he started, clearly trying to find the right words, “Suga is correct. Oikawa is the type to tell you that you don’t have to come to the ceremony, but in reality, it would mean a lot if you came. And he would actually probably be pissed if you didn’t show up.”

“Hmm,” the large Olympian hummed, thinking that over. Typically, his boyfriend would be angry if that logic was applied to most situations. Had he been doing this wrong the whole time? He furrowed his brow and stared down at his folded hands on the counter. That was incredibly illogical and a bit confusing. 

“Oh god, Daichi, we broke him!” Suga exclaimed, reaching across the table to jar the tall brunette back to the present after noticing how silent and withdrawn he had become. “He’s in Error 404 mode.”

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Daichi looked Ushijima square in the eye. “I know our advice seems a bit convoluted, but just trust us on this one thing: Oikawa wants you to go to that meeting tonight.”

“It’s a big deal!” Suga nodded in agreement, honey eyes warm and shining. “It’s his five-month coin.”

Five months had come and gone since that fateful night in the club, a loud, vivacious building that Ushijima had no business being in. He was simply dragged along by Bokuto with zero clue of what awaited him. Ushijima found himself always feeling grateful for that night because despite it’s circumstances, it led him back to the one person he truly cared for, starting the first step of a very capricious and unstable, yet rewarding, journey. In the end, it led him to Oikawa, and that’s what mattered the most.

Sure, being with Oikawa wasn’t always easy - the beautiful brunette was dramatic and sassy and a bit whiny at times. It took a while for his new anti-depression medication to work and his moods to stabilize. Finding joy was hard for Oikawa, at first, and even the smallest things upset him and made him cry. There were points he had been so miserable that Ushijima would return from practice and find the tall setter curled up in a ball on the shower floor, the water running cold over him. He had been inconsolable, but Ushijima never stopped trying. And he never wanted to stop trying. 

While it may not have been easy, it was very much worth it. For the first time in his life, Ushijima had someone to come home to, who greeted him with a warm smile and a kiss and genuine, earnest questions regarding his day: ‘how are you?’, ‘was practice tough?’, or ‘are you hungry?’. Tooru, despite his flaws, was an incredibly sweet and thoughtful person, always going the extra mile to make his partner happy. He worked hard, too. No one could deny that. If he wasn’t working at the gallery, he was holed up in his darkroom or out and about taking photographs or busting ass at the fitness center. He was trying, really _trying_. He never missed a therapy appointment or a group meeting and he held himself accountable and was honest, openly admitting to Ushijima if he felt the need to use or drink. 

“If you think it is best, then I will go,” Ushijima said finally, looking across the booth to his two friends.

“Good!” Suga smiled, clasping his hands together over his chest. “But I have just one more suggestion.”

Ushijima tilted his head to the side. “And what would that be?”

\------------

It was a slow afternoon, as was to be expected for a Wednesday. Oikawa was thankful for the bit of reprieve, though, as June was slipping by him, and the gallery was preparing for the upcoming summer showcase. He couldn’t be busy acting as a curator when he had a whole gallery to plan for.

The summer showcase was going to be a bit different than usual. It had been Oikawa’s suggestion, and he was thankful that the owners had loved the idea enough to run with it. Instead of the gallery featuring one genre, such as exclusively oil paintings or strictly watercolors, for example, it was going to include entirely mixed-media content. The world-class gallery would highlight works of all mediums from a single theme: nature. 

“Oikawa-kun, how are you today?” greeted Goto Mio, the gallery owner as she walked through the front doors of the studio. She smiled brightly at her assistant, who was working diligently on planning the floorsets and how to layer the art for the upcoming show.

“Good afternoon, Mio-chan!” he waved, smiling over the edge of his computer monitor. “I am doing great! It would be better if I could finalize a design plan, though.”

The dark-haired woman chuckled as she approached the counter, setting her very expensive Prada bag on the ledge. “You’ll figure it out, Oikawa-kun. I know you will!” She was a tiny little thing and in her very early forties, as best as Oikawa could tell. She had a petite, yet alluring figure that she packed into form-fitting dresses and designer high heels. Her makeup was always done to perfection and the woman knew how to accessorize. She was grace on two legs, armed with a quick wit and a welcoming smile. Oikawa admired her; not just for her job or taste in clothes, but for how she commanded a room with just a few words, demanding not to be underestimated or overlooked. 

He met her gaze and gave her an affirming nod of gratitude. “How was your hunt for the final artist? Have you found someone you like yet?” The upcoming show was supposed to feature five different artists of varying mediums, but the owner had struggled to confirm the fifth seat. It wasn’t from lack of offers, though - she was just choosy. And she had every right to be. Her gallery wasn’t one of the more renowned ones in Tokyo, at least not yet, but it was certainly on its way there. 

“No luck, I’m afraid,” she admitted with a sigh, propping her elbow up on the ledge next to her purse. “Though I’m sure it would likely make your task easier if I did, huh?”

Oikawa wanted to tell her, ‘yes, everything would be so much easier if you would just choose someone!’, but he didn’t. He understood the value of a reputation and the kind of power that came with being selective. The woman had a keen eye for art and talent, and he trusted her enough to choose the best fit. Granted, if she had already decided, the floor plan would already be squared away by now and it would be one less thing weighing on his mind, but these were necessary measures. It wasn’t his job to question or second guess the woman who gave him the opportunity of a lifetime - it was his job to make it all work. 

“I am here to simply help, Mio-chan!” he assured her with an earnest smile. The middle-aged woman fawned over that charming expression, clicking her tongue at the sight. She was just as suckered in by those stunning good looks and honey-sweet voice as everyone else. 

“I know you are, Oikawa-kun, and I am so thankful!” she beamed.

“Excuse me? I have a delivery for Oikawa Tooru?”

Both gallery employees turned their heads toward the door where the bell above had just rung. A man dressed in a gray jumpsuit held a large bouquet in his arms - a glass vase brimming with tiger lilies, the vibrant orange eye-catching and warm, the delicate petals dotted with a sea of brown spots, like angel kisses left on flesh. Tooru’s hazel eyes widened as the man came closer. 

“Are you Oikawa Tooru?” the delivery person asked, eyeing the brunette. He was rendered speechless, so he could only nod. “Great, please sign here,” he requested, holding out a clipboard and pen. Oikawa signed his name quickly, and the uniformed man said his ‘thank you’ and left.

“Oikawa-kun, did someone send you flowers?” Mio asked, grinning wide as she admired the delivery. “These are beautiful!”

“They sure are,” Oikawa whispered finally, coming out from his daze. He rose from his office chair to collect the bouquet from the counter’s ledge, moving it so it sat level on his desk. A small card stuck up on a plastic stick, his name written in elegant kanji on the outside.

“Who are they from?” the dark-haired woman inquired, leaning over to peer down at her assistant. 

“Umm,” the young man started, and then stopped, unsure of what else to say. Mio knew he was in a relationship, but had no idea that it was with a man. Oikawa had been very careful about Ushijima’s reputation, especially going into the Olympics. He had caused the opposite hitter enough trouble already. “I have an idea.”

“Don’t you have an important event tonight?” Mio asked. “Does it pertain to that?” She didn’t know much about Oikawa’s past, either, just that he was a former model looking to start over in a new career. She was oblivious to his recovery and he planned to keep it that way. He felt like he was being secretive, but really, he was just learning the value of privacy. And because the position was part-time, he had ample opportunity to slip off to therapy or group without disturbing his work schedule, so that was easy to adjust. If he ever felt as if he was falling behind, he would work on tasks at home to get caught up. The only thing he had disclosed so far was that tonight he had a special event, and he needed to leave his shift a little early in order to attend. 

“I am not sure,” he admitted, though his heart swelled. His face burned with both embarrassment and overwhelming joy, and he could feel the blush reaching to the very tips of his ears. Had Ushijima sent these? “But maybe.”

Mio’s expression softened at the sight of Oikawa’s flustered state. In her forty-some years on the earth, she had come to know when to read a room. “Someone is proud of you.”

Oikawa’s manicured eyebrows scrunched a little as his eyes turned inquisitive. “They are?”

“Sure, it’s the language of flowers - tiger lilies stand for pride. Though as the recipient, I suppose it’s your interpretation that matters most. Are they proud of you? Proud to know you? Or do they perhaps see you as prideful?” She pursed her lips in thought, studying her assistant’s face closely. His gaze flitted between her and the flowers, his cheeks never once losing their flush. “Well, I best head upstairs and make some phone calls. Good luck at your event tonight, and buzz me before you leave.”

Oikawa nodded, still clearly lost in thought. “Thank you, I will.”

And as the owner’s high heels clicked across the pristine marble tile, Oikawa reached gingerly for the card. He opened it slowly, the handwriting impeccable and neat.

_Tooru -_

_Your pride was never worthless._

_-Wakatoshi_

For the remainder of his shift, the pounding in his heart never ceased, and he began to question if he was the only one in the world who didn’t know the language of flowers.

\--------------

The community center was like a second home to Oikawa now, and Ushijima regularly picked him up from there - every Wednesday and Sunday, if he could. He didn’t ask anymore, he just showed up, parked down the street, and lingered outside the heavy glass doors, waiting. He wouldn’t look at his phone or do anything to pass the time - he didn't mind waiting on Oikawa, not after all the years of waiting he did before. The beautiful brunette was his now. Not that he was possessive or saw him as property, because that was far from the truth. But Oikawa’s heart belonged to him just as much as his belonged to Oikawa. And it was a beautiful feeling.

Practice had run long and it was difficult for him to leave on time, but Bokuto made sure he was able to cut out as soon as he could. It was a busier night than usual as he watched the door from across the street, people filing in pairs. He wanted to go in last in order to make an effort to cut down on drawing attention to himself or taking away from Oikawa. With the Tokyo Olympics four weeks away, the national team was on almost every billboard, as they had many big-name sponsors. Ushijima had accidentally bought an energy bar with his face on it the other day, and it caught the attention of the convenience store cashier, which led to signing several autographs and taking more selfies than Ushijima would ever care to take. That kind of attention was reserved for the people who enjoyed it, like Bokuto and Hinata - they had all the charisma and charm that the Japanese people had come to love. Ushijima just always felt awkward and out of place.

They were becoming all the more famous, to say the least. TV interviews were exhausting in the ace’s opinion, but thanks to Kiyoko’s clever PR skills, the hotel assault still remained virtually under the rug. Instead, the media was focusing on team dynamics and the efforts he was making at the orphanage. His mandatory time was up, but that didn’t stop Ushijima. He had grown accustomed to seeing the children each week, and while he was still a bit awkward, he enjoyed teaching them volleyball. Sometimes, he even found himself tutoring some of them in Japanese history or kanji. 

Ushijima glanced down at his watch - it was just a few minutes until. He had been waiting for the most opportune time to slip in unnoticed. Deciding that was close enough, he approached the doors and entered the building. He tried to dress as inconspicuously as possible, wearing plain jeans and a simple gray t-shirt with a black ball cap pulled low over his eyes, avoiding anything with a ‘Team Japan’ logo on it. He usually stood out bad enough because of his size, so he wanted to do whatever possible to fly under the radar. 

He made his way down the usual hallway which he knew led to the larger meeting room - he had been inside once before. There was a small crowd and Ushijima chalked that up to be a good thing - the more people in the audience, the more people receiving coins. However, this fact did little to quell his anxiety. Suga was insistent about his coming and even suggested that he should send flowers to the gallery ahead of time - (Oikawa had texted him almost immediately upon their delivery, using lots of emojis and gifs to explain how grateful he was.) But despite this, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be there - the last thing he wanted was to upset Tooru.

Ushijima took a place toward the back, opting to stand and lean against the far wall. He hadn’t seen Oikawa yet, but the room had to have about fifty or so people in it, so it was to be expected. Maybe he was nervous and needed a moment before joining everyone in the meeting hall? Or perhaps he was mingling somewhere and Ushijima hadn't spotted him yet? As his watch ticked closer to 7 p.m., everyone began to sit, taking their spots in the metal chairs. At the front, there were six chairs facing inward, toward the audience. One by one, those became filled, too, until he spotted the familiar tuft of chocolate brown hair and the glint from navy blue glasses frames. 

Oikawa was talking with an older man next to him and they chatted as they sat side by side. To the untrained eye, Tooru seemed fine - cool, calm, and collected. But to Ushijima who had spent the better part of ten years worshipping and studying the man, his nervous ticks were obvious - the clenching and unclenching of his fists, the very subtle tap of his left foot, the way his exhilarating smile didn’t quite reach up to brighten his eyes. He had talked and talked about this day, about getting his next coin. He hadn’t made it very far past the 5-month mark before, and this was finally the point he could move forward. 

“Good evening everyone,” greeted a short, middle-aged woman. She wore black dress slacks and a polo shirt paired with a soft-looking, gray cardigan. Her black hair was tied back into a neat bun. She smiled brightly at the small audience and gave a little bow. Seated just behind her were the six coin recipients, all in a row. “My name is Ito Sakura, and I am so glad you have all come today!

“This group behind me has been working very hard to better themselves, and you are here because you belong in one of their support systems. Please remember that we need to honor their efforts, but also, their privacy,” her tone took on a serious quality, but the kindness never left her eyes. “Each person has elected to be a part of this ceremony instead of accepting their milestone privately, which is a big deal. Including people into your recovery is monumental, and choosing a sponsor or support system makes all the difference. So please respect their step forward and keep their confidentiality.” 

This speech earned her murmurs of agreement, and she smiled again. “Thank you so much. Now for our first honoree today…”

Ushijima listened carefully, watching intently as each person was announced and then given their appropriate coin. Sometimes, the recipient said a few words or pointed out their family or sponsor, taking a moment to thank them for their love and support. There were a few tears and heartfelt offers of gratitude. The older man who had been seated next to Oikawa rose to his feet to accept is one year coin, the milestone earning him a rousing round of applause. 

Ushijima even found himself clapping, so mesmerized by what he was seeing. He knew Oikawa wasn’t alone in his struggles and that there were others like him, but he had never fully grasped what it meant to be so involved in a community outside of a volleyball team. Tooru was sweet, and a charmer - that much was no mystery. His natural leadership and warmth were only solidified as each person, prior to sitting back down, came over and hugged the former model, murmuring words of appreciation. Ushijima wasn’t sure exactly what Oikawa had individually done for each of those people, but he could tell it was meaningful and that he had an impact on their lives in some way. 

“Oikawa Tooru,” the speaker called, holding out a shining coin, “would you please come get your five-month coin?”

He was the last to be called, tears already stinging his gorgeous eyes. As he made his way to the front, it was clear he had come directly from work given the way he was dressed. Ushijima remembered buying that outfit for him a few weeks back - trim cut, navy dress pants, tight at the ankles, and a sleek gray button-down with a minimal polka dot print. He wore the shirt tucked in and accessorized the look with polished brown dress shoes and of course, his signature glasses. 

And as he walked across the stage, he looked more like a Harvard law professor than someone attending a recovery meeting - it was all of that pride he possessed, that confidence and stubbornness that Ushijima had so carelessly called ‘worthless’. It wasn’t worthless. In fact, it was invaluable, because it was one of the cornerstones that made Oikawa exactly who he was - a proud, strong Japanese man, with a back-breaking work ethic and the world’s biggest heart. 

“Thank you, Ito-san,” he said softly, taking the token into his hand. She smiled up at him as he rose back to full height.

“Is there anything you would like to say or anyone you would like to thank, Oikawa-san?”

“Yes,” he replied. He glanced over at the other recipients to his left and gave them a nod before turning back to the crowd. Though once Oikawa looked forward, he was rendered speechless.

Ushijima met Tooru’s eye, and the former model clearly relaxed, whatever tension he was holding in his shoulders immediately softened. Even his expression turned warmer, those kaleidoscope eyes alluring and magnetic, reeling him in. Before Oikawa, Ushijima felt as if he had been lost at sea, drifting from one place to the next. But in this gorgeous man, he found a home. Their polarity was tangible, but perhaps, that was what would always lead them to one another. 

“I just want to take a moment to thank the people in my group, as well as you, Ito-san. We appreciate your dedication to leading us week after week and never giving up on us.” Ito smiled and folded her hands together in gratitude. 

“But there is one more person I need to thank. I actually have a letter I’d like to share, if that is okay?” he looked toward Ito who gave him an approving smile.

“Thank you. I will keep it brief,” he assured the room, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a tightly folded piece of paper. Ushijima quickly recognized the paper, as it was from the cosmic-printed stationery he had gifted Tooru a month or so back. It was a ‘just because’ present he had spotted after a team sponsorship photo-op outside of a manga and book supply store. 

Oikawa cleared his throat and unfolded the page. “This letter is for you, and you know who you are,” he began, nimble fingers curled around the edges of the pale paper. “It was through your love and support that I found myself again, and for that, I am so grateful. I can do so many of the things I couldn’t before.” He paused a moment, swallowing thickly, smoothing a hand through his chocolate hair. He looked at Ushijima before returning his gaze to his letter.

“Because of you, I can step out into the street and take a deep breath and realize I’m alive and finally feel happy about that fact. I can walk into the front door of our apartment and realize it’s a home, and not because of its four walls and state of the art appliances, but it’s because you’re there. I can open my eyes in the morning and reach out and touch you, and you won’t break, and neither will I. You have shown me how strong I am, and how foolish I can be, but you love me anyway.” 

A choking sob caught in his esophagus then, that trademark sound that sends bolts of fear piercing through Ushijima’s stomach whenever he hears it, as it was a signal that his beloved was in trouble. This time, however, he stayed glued to the wall, though his body cried for him to race forward and latch onto Oikawa, to wrap him up in his arms, grant him a safe place to harbor, a dock to rest his weary bones. 

“And for those reasons, I find myself filled to the brim, literally overflowing from your mercy and benediction. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Tears came now, soft and slow, performing graceful pirouettes as they danced over milk-white flesh, cascading over high cheekbones until they met at the end of his pointed and perfect chin. “These last five months have been a gift, and I can’t wait to add up all of my sober days with more memories of you.”

Soft applause filled the room and the tall brunette bowed once more. Ito took a step forward and wrapped her short arms around Oikawa’s slender torso, offering him the warmest and most maternal of hugs. He bent down and hugged back.

Ushijima hadn’t cried many times in his life. Growing up, it was frowned upon. It was something that only women could do - his father was clear about that: ‘ _Men don’t cry, Toshi. Not when they win and most certainly not when they lose._ ’ Ushijima was a man, so he didn’t cry. Not when he won, not when he lost. But here he was now, shedding tears, moisture pooling in the corner of his eyes, mirroring what Oikawa had just done.

Time passed and he didn’t notice. People stood and shuffled around, offering more hugs and kind words of congratulations. But he stayed still as if it was his job to hold up that wall. Oikawa crossed the room and he moved like he water, with a fluidity and poise that the large ace knew he himself could never possess. But Tooru, _his_ sweet Tooru, was so capable, elegant, and refined. 

“You came,” he said breathlessly through a raspy and exhausted throat. Up close, his cheeks were tinted red and his neck was a bit blotchy, combined evidence of his unraveled emotions. 

“Of course,” was all Ushijima could think to say at that moment. He wanted nothing more than to sweep up Oikawa and never, ever let him go. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Take me home, Ushiwaka-chan?” he asked, blinking those wet lashes and doing his best to put on his masked smile.

“Of course,” Ushijima nodded. 

The duo slipped through the crowd and made their way to the main doors, weaving through any stragglers. Without realizing it, he had reached out for Oikawa’s hand, the touch of his beautiful, soft hands working like an anchor to ground him to reality. 

They had confessed their love a few months back, laid out under the magnificence of the universe. But as they emerged from the community center, Ushijima came upon the startling realization that Oikawa _was_ his universe. To Ushijima, he was the epicenter of it all; Oikawa was the sun, and he would gladly revolve around it.

The former setter paused once they had made it to the familiar black Mercedes and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, taking a moment to light up a smoke. He had been smoking less lately, much to Ushijima’s pleasure, but it was still a habit that helped him soothe his nerves, so the ace made it a point not to nag.

“Did you not want me to hear your letter? Is that why you didn’t want me to come” Ushijima asked finally after a few minutes had passed. The sun had just set, so the sky was clinging to that hazy blue color that drifted in between turquoise and purple. 

“No, of course, I did,” Oikawa smiled. It was earnest, though the gesture was still weak from the overwhelming emotions he had displayed earlier. “I was just afraid.”

“Of what, Tooru?”

The beautiful brunette took a long drag of his cigarette then, closing his eyes as his lips closed around the filter. He exhaled, sending the smoke into the air, swirling and heavy until it evaporated, disappearing as it climbed higher. “That if you came, I couldn’t read it out loud. And I really, really,” he paused, inhaling deeply, “needed to say it out loud. And I was scared that if I saw your face, I’d just become so bridled with all of those words that I wouldn't be able to actually say them.”

Ushijima reached up and cupped Oikawa’s face, the setter melting into the touch, sighing in relief at the connection. He closed his eyes again and hummed happily. “I love you,” he said softly, his breath warm on Ushijima’s large palm.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back, inching closer to pull him into a comforting embrace. 

They stayed like that for long moments, until the former setter’s cigarette singed the tips of his fingers and he was forced to pull away to snub it out. There, in the silent street, Oikawa’s phone suddenly rang, and it sounded like cannon fire amongst the quiet atmosphere. “Oh, hold on.” As he fished for his phone in his pants pocket, Ushijima could only stare, watching closely.

“Oh it’s the gallery,” he said as he looked down at the LCD, voice dropping as if in fear. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Ushijima assured him.

“Hello?” Tooru answered, pressing the phone to his ear. “Yes, hello Mio-chan! -- Oh, no, you’re not interrupting my night, I just finished. -- It went well, thank you. Yes, I’m on my way home now. -- Ah, did I forget something? Oh, I left my portfolio there? I’m so sorry, just leave it there, please, and I’ll pick it up tomorrow. What--” Though Oikawa was clearly interrupted and he paused to listen. “You did? Mio-chan, that’s wonderful!” He smiled brightly then. “Who is the final artist?” Another beat passed, and then another, and Oikawa’s mouth fell open. Had Ushijima not reached out to grab it in time, his phone would have fallen to the concrete and shattered. 

“Hello? Oikawa-san, are you there?” came the bubbly, energetic voice over the line. Ushijima pressed the phone to his ear.

“This is Ushijima Wakatoshi,” he said slowly, keeping an eye on Oikawa, who was now bent over grabbing his knees, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Oh, you must be his roommate he talks so much about! This is Mio, his boss at the gallery. Is Oikawa alright?”

“I think he is going to faint,” Ushijima admitted honestly, now kneeling down beside his boyfriend, trying to get the former model to look up at him. “He seems like he’s going into shock.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” the woman on the other end laughed, musical and amused. “He left his photography portfolio on his flash drive here, and upon review, I made my decision. I just asked him to be the final artist for the summer showcase, and I think he’s just a bit stunned.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my mother, who seven years ago today, lost her battle to addiction. I made a small post commemorating her, so if you would like to read more about the week I said goodbye to her, you can do so [here](https://photogiraffe77.tumblr.com/post/631426803007979521/7-years-ago-today-i-took-my-mother-off-of-life). A lot of her life experiences are reflected in Tooru's story, especially being a model who suffered through addiction and sexual assault. 
> 
> Again, thank you for your patience, kind words, comments, and kudos. I promise to see this to the end!!


	15. Another Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!! I hope you have been well. This chapter contains a little angst and it wasn't originally planned but I had a dream about it so here it is. I hope you enjoy it anyway!!

“Oi!” Ushijima snapped his head up, not even realizing he had been staring down at his black Asics. What was he doing again? “We have the Olympics in three weeks, so try getting your head out of your ass, yeah?”

“Kageyama!” It was Hinata’s tenor voice, filled with embarrassment, just as flustered as ever by his boyfriend’s crass and blunt demeanor. “You can’t talk like that to Ushijima-san!”

A volleyball whizzed past, smacking into the court before ricocheting and rolling away. That forceful swing came from none other than their white-haired captain, who was standing on the other side of the net, knees bent, and golden eyes sharp. Ushijima always thought he looked regal like this, more like the formidable player he was deep down, and less like the lovesick, energetic puppy he appeared to be in interviews and well… any other time, really. “Thinking about Oikawa, aren’t you, Ushiwaka?” 

Bokuto’s duality would never cease to amaze the left-handed opposite hitter. With a sigh, Ushijima adjusted his practice jersey, pulling it up toward his face to wipe the sweat from his brow, all while giving a wayward side-eye to the smart-mouthed setter in his presence. Hinata visibly shuttered, as if the look had actually been directed at him instead. “I apologize, my thoughts were elsewhere. Please start the drill over.”

“Okay, but you’re getting Tsum-Tsum this time,” Bokuto stated with an enthusiastic smile. “And I’ll take Kags here.” 

“Don’t call me that,” the tall brunette huffed.

“I heard my name?” the wild-eyed bleach blonde said, poking his head under the net. 

“You’re Ushiwaka’s partner for the remainder of the drill.” 

“Yer ass is grass, _Black Ace_ ,” Atsumu teased with a smug expression, one that caused the blood in Ushijima’s veins to burn a little hotter than it had before. He was normally not on edge like this. Usually, he was able to keep his composure and remain unaffected by the terse and lilted words carelessly slung around by his teammates, but there was something gnawing about this situation that vibrated just under his skin, burning like livewires. 

The drill was simple: rapid-fire sets, varying speeds, and heights, all positioned from different parts of the court. It forced the spiker to read non-verbal cues, alter tempos, and think quickly. In a match, especially at the Olympic level, it would cause all players to be quick on their feet and calculated in their actions, so practicing variations was the only logical choice.

Ushijima wasn’t dumb. That much was blatantly obvious; he had proven himself as highly intelligent time and time again. However, what he lacked on the court was what he lacked in social situations, which was the ability to be _sharp_. That was something he had always admired about Oikawa. The beautiful brunette was quick - on his feet, with his tongue, with plays. He could read and react on the drop of a dime. Ushijima struggled in that department- he needed things to be drawn out a bit longer, to be black or white, hot or cold. While he had made considerable progress on this particular flaw over the years, it wasn’t the same. That natural ability rolled off of Tooru in unrelenting waves, just as addicting and otherworldly as the rest of him.

Atsumu’s setting was good - there was no denying that. But Ushijima had grown accustomed to Kageyama’s over their time on the Adlers. The blue-eyed brunette was a natural genius, something he had only honed during all his time with Hinata. Atsumu was clever, though, resembling Oikawa in some regards. He was a bit wolfish in his execution, aggressive, which wasn’t surprising, considering his career as a Black Jackal had afforded him Sakusa and Bokuto, two of volleyball’s most powerful and ferocious players. Overall, his setting just lacked the swan-like poise that Oikawa’s movement possessed. While he had never personally been given the opportunity to spike one of the former Seijo captain’s sets, Ushijima knew they were made for him. 

The drill proved to be an exercise in futility: no matter what Ushijima did, his hand would not connect with the ball in the way in which he was accustomed. Even when Bokuto demanded Kageyama to switch back in an attempt to salvage the morale, it didn’t matter, Ushijima simply wasn’t hitting with his pure power. It wasn’t earnest, nor sincere, nor up to par. Frustration raked his body, clawing and mocking, curdling his stomach.

“Ushijima, switch to serves.” Coach’s command came out shaky, clearly taken aback by what was unfolding. It was too close to the world stage for something like this to be occurring. These practices were about refinement and last-minute touches, not working through the fundamentals. While their coach hadn’t made the final call as to whether to start Kageyama or Atsumu as the official Team Japan setter, Ushijima knew his own position would quickly be forfeited to another ace if he didn’t get his shit together.

“Coach, I--” But the protest died in his throat when a heated gaze nearly cut him to the bone. 

“ _Serves_ ,” the older man all but growled in the ace’s direction, pointing a dictating finger to the other training court. 

With a snarl in his throat and turn of his heel, he lumbered off, following orders. A nervous, mousy manager brought him a ball cart, and the rest was history. Each flagrant ‘smack’ was an act of aggression, composed of tension and ungodly tenacity. This, he could do. It was solo, and he didn’t have to rely on anyone else. Service ace after service ace battered the opposite side of the court, the same manager scrounging around in an attempt to keep the cart filled, to keep up with the sheer break-neck pace in which Ushijima was firing them out. 

_Unadaptable._

_Obstinate._

_Headstrong._

_Simple._

_Emotionless._

_Robotic._

Some words hurt worse than others, but when piled on top of each other, they felt like the deadliest of blades, demeaning and degrading, cutting to the very core. As if all of his surmounting efforts had led to this, to choke, to fail before he could even attend the opening games. He couldn’t beat Karasuno as a third year, and naturally, they faced the occasional loss all through college and his time with the Adlers, but this was different. _This_ was supposed to be the culmination of his life’s work, the epitome of his blood, sweat, and tears. And to fail now?

_Slam!_

The ferocity of the impact vibrated through the gymnasium like the burning in his bones. Why was this happening? Anxiety buzzed like static in his bloodstream, relentless and critical, playing skip rope with his veins. Another toss, another leap, another brutal crack of his left hand to the green and white leather. 

An acidic ache tore at his shoulder, at his chest, at his heart. _If only Oikawa could set to me._ He couldn’t swallow the thought as it bubbled and seethed in his esophagus. _This wouldn’t be happening._

Again, another powerful swing followed by an ear-shattering reverb to the ball where it met the polished hardwood, the white, buzzing lights overhead casting flashing shadows with each movement of his imposing figure. The onslaught was unstoppable, almost unnerving. Onlookers stared, but no one commented, much too afraid to speak.

This felt like the practice after the nightclub all over again, that sinking feeling in his gut when Oikawa had left his apartment, underweight, ragged, spiraling from the toxins leaving his abused body. The anxiety squeezed at Ushijima’s lungs, pushing all the air from the vital organs as he rasped and labored for just an ounce of oxygen, his whole body greedy for a sign of life, a reason to stay afloat. Golden eyes found the floor as his stinging hands connected to his knees, large body doubled over on itself, his shoulders shaking.

_Not here. Not here. Not here._

Those two words repeated in his head, stuck in his skull like a bloodthirsty mantra, swirling, twisting, serving as a disgusting, mocking reminder that he was sick, and not in a way that people could always see. His brain was sick, his heart was sick, and in turn, his body was sick, queasy, and restless. 

_Not here._

“Ushijima!” The ace barely registered that his name was being called. Who was hollering for him? He couldn’t help but wonder as his knees collided with the floor, his hands hiding his face, now damp with sweat that had nothing to do with exercise.

“Ushijima-san!” A second voice.

“Get the medic, go!”

“Wakatoshi, are you sick? Did you get hurt?”

“Oi, manager! Did he fall?”

“Are you going to throw up?”

“Look up at us, are you okay?”

So many questions flew through the air, and he couldn’t even stop to figure out which one he could answer. No one on the team knew. Other than Ushijima himself, only his doctor and Oikawa were aware that he suffered from panic attacks. It was a secret that the large ace hoped to always keep, but now that he was spiraling, it only made things worse.

_You’ll be kicked off of the team._

_Everyone already thinks you’re stupid, now they’ll think you’re weak, too._

_There’s a reason you’re not their captain anymore._

He could feel hands on his biceps, the touch excruciating and overstimulating as his vision faded to a pinpoint, the black almost all-consuming. “Ushijima!” He thought he recognized Bokuto’s voice. “Ushi, stay with me!”

The guilt clawed at his heart that he couldn’t keep his captain’s request, the anxiety devouring his ability to keep his body conscious and upright.

\-----

Two weeks until the show. That’s all Oikawa had - two weeks. 

Pouring over countless pieces, planning the whole show from start to finish as well trying to find the perfect photographs for his own display were all on his ever-growing to-do list. It wasn’t a lot of time, he knew that, and getting prints ordered and frames made and laying it all out… It was a lot, to say the least. But it wasn’t anything Oikawa couldn’t handle.

“Oikawa-kun, how are things?” Mito asked, practically waltzing up to her tall, brunette assistant where he stood in the open gallery, hazel eyes fixed and focused on the blank walls as if trying to visualize the upcoming exhibition. 

The photographer drummed his pen against his pink, pursed lips, not looking over at his boss. Not that she would have expected him to - there were clearly many cogs moving in that machine-like mind of his. “I feel like I’m getting closer,” he admitted, though he remained thoughtfully poised: one arm folded across his chest, the other propped up against it, weight shifted onto his left leg while the wing-tip toe of a leather dress shoe tapped against the marble with increased concentration. “But I’m missing something.”

“Will it help once the art actually arrives?” the short woman asked curiously, moving so that she stood next to Oikawa, flitting her gaze between the assistant’s handsome features and the wall that seemed to be the epicenter of his attention. Even in high heels, the middle-aged woman hardly even reached his slender shoulders. 

“Maybe,” Oikawa conceded, voice a soft mumble, still consumed by his thoughts. He tilted his head slightly to one side. “I just need to figure out how to pace the different mediums. Do we open with watercolor? Or acrylic?”

“What if you staggered all the mediums throughout? Kept it constantly moving?” Mito offered as a suggestion. This was Oikawa’s project through and through, and since his hiring, she was free to stoke the other projects she had in the fire, all for the sake of boosting the gallery’s popularity and reputation. Whatever the young photographer thought was best, she would believe him.

“You know,” Oikawa stated with a soft smile, “that is a really good idea! And it will help to ensure that all the pieces are seen. It might not look fluid, but I can find a pattern that works.” He pulled out the notebook that had been tucked under his arm, quickly writing a few notes. When the gallery phone started ringing, he lifted his head. “Oh I’ll grab--”

“Nonsense!” Mito insisted, waving him away. “Keep taking your notes, I can answer my own phone every now and again.”

“Thanks, Mito!” Oikawa gave a quick nod and turned his eyes back to his notes. Would he alternate the mediums in any certain order? Or would he arrange them based on canvas size? Or on color palettes? Most of the artists had submitted photos of their pieces via email, though some claimed to still be working on their final selections. _Typical artists_ , he thought with a chastizing click of his tongue, completely ignoring the fact that none of his own pieces were finalized, but that was irrelevant.

“Oikawa-kun?” It wasn’t his name being called that surprised him, but instead, the almost panicked tone that oozed from Mito as she called it. He turned his full attention to where his boss stood at the front desk about 20 ft away, the landline phone pushed to her ear, eyes ablaze. 

“What’s wrong?” he questioned immediately, lowering his pen and notebook.

“It’s someone named Bokuto Kotouro. He says there’s been an incident at the training center and you need to come right away.” There was a pause from Mito, as if she were listening to the man at the other end of the receiver. “He says you’re the emergency contact for your roommate Ushijima. He’s collapsed.” 

\------

The cab ride to the training center felt excruciatingly long, each second he sat in the car with his hands folded in his lap was just another second he could have spent by Ushijima’s side. Was there something he was missing? Was there something Oikawa overlooked? Ushijima promised to open up and talk if he ever felt anxious, and they even agreed to keep at least one pill of his anxiety meds on hand at the house while Sugawara kept the bulk of the prescription at his house. One pill would be enough to curb Ushijima’s anxiety in an emergency, but not enough for Oikawa to feel high should he get the urge to use and relapse.

 _“Let me speak to him!”_ Oikawa had requested, rushing to the phone, grabbing it from his boss’s hand. “ _Bokuto, it’s Oikawa! What happened? Is he hurt?”_

 _“I think he’s having a panic attack,_ ” the white-haired captain had explained, anxiety racking through his own voice. “ _What should we do?_ ”

“ _Don’t take him to the hospital, if he wakes up and finds the media attention on him, that will only make it worse. Take him to the locker room and put a cold rag on his face and keep talking to him. I can be there in twenty minutes!_ ”

Mito offered to drive him, but Oikawa insisted that she should remain at the gallery - they were too close to the show to leave the space unattended. They couldn’t fall any further behind on their preparations.

 **Mito [3:52 p.m., 7/03/20XX]:** _Oikawa-kun, please take care of your friend and yourself! I will handle things at the gallery in your absence._

 **Mito [3:54 p.m., 7/03/20XX]:** _Please let me know how he is feeling and if there is anything I can do to help._

Oikawa stared down at his phone in disbelief, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He pawed at them before sending a quick ‘thank you’ in response. It was simple and didn’t do the woman’s kind gesture any justice, but Oikawa didn’t have much more in him at that moment. His emotions were haywire enough, and all he wanted was to make sure his love was safe.

Once the cab pulled up to the large building, Oikawa tossed several wads of yen in the driver’s direction, ignoring the proper etiquette of waiting for a total, instead, opting to dead sprint toward the training center. He knew that the building was closed to the public, and an attendant at the entrance stopped him.

“Identification badge?” the bored, yet broad-looking man requested, eyes a bit sleepy. He held out his hand from behind the glass partitioner, expecting utter compliance. Behind him read a big, bold sign: _Olympic Officials Only - ID Badge Required_

“I need entrance into the volleyball courts, this is an emergency. I am Oikawa Tooru,” he explained in a breathless huff, eyes peeled toward the door, waiting for the automated lock to be undone.

“ID?” the man repeated, completely unphased by the hurried and frantic demeanor Oikawa presented. 

“I am not authorized to come in, but--”

“Then you can’t enter.” The dull, disinterested quality of his voice was downright infuriating. 

“Please, I am the emergency contact for a volleyball player that has collapsed, I need to get in!” He could feel the feverish red pulling at his cheeks and chest, the anger turning to a stone in his stomach. 

“No ID, no entry.” The guard folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re gonna be fucking sorry if--” However, Oikawa’s threats were cut short when a cackling came over the offending man’s walky-talky, another man’s voice almost indiscernible through the static.

“ _Oi_ ,” came the voice over the line once the connection finally stabilized. Oikawa blinked - he knew that voice, that tenor lilt that was still just a bit gruff and always sounded angry. He had stood on the same side of the court, and then the opposite side of the court, as that individual dozens of times. “ _Is this the front desk?_ ”

The guard pawed for the device, bringing it to his lips, pressing the button on the side. “Yes?” he asked gingerly.

“ _This is Kageyama Tobio on the medic’s walky-talky. Can you please let Oikawa Tooru in once he arrives? He is the emergency contact for one of our players and he has been called to the gym._ ”

The tall guard blinked heavily, and Oikawa would have found it in him to be smug and conceited about it if his thoughts weren’t already consumed with worry for his partner. “Uh, yeah, he’s on his way now, actually,” the guard basically stuttered, pressing some button behind the desk that prompted the door to unlock with a heavy ‘click’. Oikawa didn’t wait for directions before flinging it open and sprinting into the foyer.

The whole front area was adorned in red and white, the multi-color trademarked Olympics rings hanging from a huge canvas banner, located front and center. Life-size photos of each Japanese Olympian traced the hall on either side and as Oikawa ran, he passed faces he recognized from a multitude of sports, not just volleyball. He didn’t have time to admire, however, because he was on a mission. Running aimlessly was probably ineffective, sure, but didn’t know what else to do. 

His thoughts were roaring so loud in his head that he almost missed another familiar voice calling out for him. “Oikawa!” The brunette snapped his head to the right, a wild shock of black bed head poking out from behind a large, metal door. “This way.”

“Kuroo, oh thank god,” the ex-setter called out, sprinting to meet the former Nekoma captain. He felt a rush of relief surge through his body, though the respite lasted just a few seconds. He found where to go, and that one was one problem down, but it was barely the prime issue. “Where is he?” 

“He’s in the visitor’s locker room with Bo,” the bed-head explained, leading Oikawa along the edge of the large gymnasium, “trying to give him a bit of privacy.” There were five running volleyball courts, each one operating with a different set of drills, the players fanned out. While they were seemingly trying to operate as normal, even as a newcomer and an outsider, Oikawa could feel the tension in the air. Something was different.

“What happened?” he inquired. Oikawa was unsure about how much Ushijima’s teammates knew regarding their relationship, as the large man kept things relatively confidential. He was not an open person, especially regarding private relationships. However, no one knew better than Oikawa about how insistent and nosy teammates could be, notably where Bokuto, Kuroo, and Hinata were concerned. The incident at the hotel was no mystery to the group, either.

Kuroo shook his head. “I’m not sure, I was at the other end of the court. He wasn’t himself today, though, and coach took him off of spiking drills to work on serves. The manager said he was just going balls to the wall with his jump serve when next thing we know, he’s not breathing and hit the floor like a ton of bricks.” The tall man flicked his cat-like eyes in Oikawa’s direction, a hint of concern contradicting his lax demeanor. “We have an attending medic here at all times, but Bokuto knew to call you.” He laughed then, “you know, he’s kind of a dink, but he’s a good captain. He’s got every player’s emergency contact information saved on a document in his phone, just in case.”

The unmistakable metal door of a locker room came into view, and Kuroo propped it open. “He’s in there with Bo, go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on things out here.”

Oikawa nodded his thanks before disappearing inside. The locker room was huge, as to be expected, decked out in vibrant red and contrasting black. It was four times the size of any college locker room he had ever stepped foot in. Clearly, it was state of the art, just like the rest of the facility.

“Hello?” Bokuto whispered (or tried to, given that it was Bokuto), as he whipped his head around a concrete divider. His big, golden eyes lit up and his prominent eyebrows arched higher when he caught sight of Oikawa. The brunette must have looked like a deer in the headlights just then because the captain’s face softened. “He’s in the shower.”

Oikawa quickly padded up to Bokuto. “He’s in the shower?” Hazel eyes scanned toward the far end of the locker, the sound of running water distinct. 

“Yeah, he’s trying to calm down a little more. He really hit the deck.”

“Is he injured?” Oikawa asked frantically. 

Bo shook his head, pursing his full lips. “Not physically, but he seems pretty damn rattled.” 

“I need to speak with him,” Oikawa said firmly as he turned toward the shower room, but Bokuto grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “What-?” he began to ask but was cut off.

“I have anxiety, too. And ADD. And I think I’m a bit bi-polar,” he admitted with a straight face, attention focused solely on the former setter. Oikawa had never witnessed this side of the usually jovial man. He was well-known in the sports community as a bit of a goof and ditz, despite his sheer athleticism and rock-solid performances. “I go to therapy. And I take medication. And I give my boyfriend slash best friend a run for his money on a daily basis with my next dose of crazy.”

Oikawa opened his mouth to ask Bokuto exactly what point he was trying to make when he felt his jaw click shut at the realization that the white-haired man was starting to tear up. 

“I’m telling you this because I want you to know that he’ll be okay.” He swallowed thickly, removing his hand from Oikawa’s wrist to instead pat his shoulder gently. “Just keep taking care of him.”

The old Oikawa would have been petty, vengeful, irritated. He would have shaken off the kind words and insisted that the captain mind his own damn business. However, those days were long behind him, and instead, the former model nodded, moisture glazing his own eyes. “Thank you, Bokuto-san.” 

“Go take care of your man,” the ace offered with a sad smile before heading toward the locker room door.

Oikawa wasted no further time, rushing toward the sound of running water. There had to be at least twenty shower stalls, but only one contained Ushijima.

“Wakatoshi!” the brunette cried once he reached the occupied shower. He was astounded to find the burly ace seated on the shower floor, stark naked, his legs pulled up his chest, his eyes closed with his head resting against the tiles behind him. Lukewarm water poured from the spout, rushing over tanned skin. 

At the sound of his name, the ace slowly opened his eyes, the normally stoic, put-together expression on his face appeared utterly _exhausted_. The once-sharp, golden eyes were no longer flecked with passion and life and authority. Instead, they were red-rimmed, downtrodden, empty. 

Oikawa’s heart sank as he lunged forward, running water be damned, taking the broad shoulders of his beloved between his long, lanky arms and pressing gentle, reassuring kisses to the damp olive locks plastered to Ushijima’s temple. 

“Waka-chan!” Oikawa exclaimed breathlessly, pulling the ace into his chest. His posh button-down was getting soaked, as were his pleated dress pants and genuine leather shoes. Oikawa couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Tooru.” Ushijima’s voice sounded so distant despite his proximity and his tone was rough as gravel, completely void of color. Sure, he was stoic and didn’t usually speak with a lot of inflection, but Oikawa knew him well enough to know when something just wasn’t right. He sounded so fucking miserable that Oikawa felt his heart almost shattering. 

“Baby, I’m here now,” Oikawa assured him, moving to cradle that handsome face he had grown to love so much with both of his beautiful, slender hands, forcing Ushijima to register that someone was with him now. And not just anyone, his boyfriend, his love. “Are you alright?”

It shouldn’t have surprised Oikawa when Ushijima only looked up at him and said flatly, “you’re getting wet.”

A strangled, sorrowful laugh ripped through his chest, lacking any real humor. Of _course,_ that was Ushijima’s fucking response. “I don’t care,” Tooru assured him, softer this time, running his thumbs over the soft, pallid skin of his boyfriend’s face. “Are you _fucking okay_ , Wakatoshi? Talk to me.”

From beside him, Ushijima nodded slowly, bringing that beautiful, powerful left hand to Oikawa’s quickly dampening hair, thick fingers carding through the delicate locks. “I am better now.”

“Did you have a panic attack?” It was difficult to keep the alarming edge out of his tone while minding his volume - everything echoed in the concrete pavilion, and sensory overload tended to exacerbate Ushijima’s condition, especially once he was already feeling anxious.

“Yes.” 

“Did something specific happen?”

He didn’t respond verbally that time, only giving a sullen shake of his head.

“Does Suga need to bring your medicine?”

Another shake.

“Then tell me what you need.”

Ushijima’s muscled arms enclosed around Oikawa completely, summoning the last of his waning strength to encapsulate the shorter man in a bone-crushing embrace, pressing their lips together in a bruising, yet somehow still delicate, kiss.

Ushijima tasted of so many things; longing, self-doubt, unrelenting power, exhaustion. Every one of these emotions was malleable, heavily weighted, worrisome. The last time the ace had a bad attack it was because of the terse, bigoted words his father had shared, making Ushijima feel inferior. If it wasn’t something specific like that this time, then what was it? Was he just collectively getting worse? Did he need to go back to the doctor, or maybe to a therapist? Was there more that Oikawa could do? 

When their lips parted, Oikawa gazed down at his boyfriend with a long, poignant look. What exactly was going through that thick, gorgeous skull of his? “Tell me what you need,” he pleaded, clothes now fully soaked and suction-cupped to his slender frame. Ushijima lifted his hands to brace the former Seijo captain on his narrow hips, fingers curled around the ruined polyester fabric. The gesture was intimate, as if he was clinging for dear life.

“Set for me.”

The brunette drew back a little, unable to govern the shock written on his beautiful face. “ _What_?” he asked, almost incredulously, unsure if that’s exactly what he heard. “I can’t set for you, I haven’t played volleyball since my knee injury and I’m not even on the national team!” He let out a disgruntled scoff. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

“Tooru.” This time when Ushijima said his name, some of that power was back, that heavy resonance sounding so much larger in that titled 6x6 boxed shower. “I know.”

“Then what do you _want_ Ushiwaka-chan?” Tooru basically sobbed, feeling the frustration bubble in his stomach. Why even bother asking when Ushijima was only going to request the impossible?

“I just want you to teach me,” he explained, soothing his hand over chestnut hair, planting it firmly on Oikawa’s slender neck. “I need you to set for me, and help me become a better player.” Some color returned to his cheeks as his expression turned tender. “You bring out the best qualities of those around you, and I’ll never be prepared for the world stage if you don’t teach me.” There was a long moment of silence then, the only sounds being the cathartic rush of water and the synchronized thrumming of their pounding hearts. “So will you?”

It wasn’t a marriage proposal, but it may have well been one, in Oikawa’s eyes. He choked on a sob, “of course, yes, you big, stupid idiot!” 

Ushijima relaxed then, leaning heavily against the shower wall. “Then that’s all I need.”

Oikawa leaned forward once more, catching those lips. “Fucking moron.” And this time when he laughed, the sound had color. 

Oikawa would never cease to be amazed at just how much one stoic, robotic being could animate his world, nor by just how much he wanted him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I am so not ready to let this story go, and I'm afraid I've added just a bit more to this story in order to delay the inevitable.
> 
> (For clarification, Ushi is asking Oikawa to practice with him and help him. Oikawa is obviously not going to be joining the Olympic team lol)
> 
> Thank you for all of your continued love, support, comments, and kudos on this fic!! They mean the world to me! :) Please keep me coming because they make my day!
> 
> Until next time!


	16. Anomaly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I just want to take a quick moment to thank everyone for all of their continued support and kind words!! They truly mean so much. I hope you enjoy this chapter, because it has been one of my favorites to write to date. Perhaps so might see it as a 'filler chapter', but I don't care.
> 
> See you at the bottom!

“You’re too slow on your feet.” Normally, that tone of voice followed with that little, almost somewhat degrading ‘tut’ of Oikawa’s tongue would have driven Ushijima into a glaring scowl, but not today. It was meant to be productive, even if it was a bit condescending. Though the tall ace was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I am a large man,” Ushijima offered simply to his boyfriend as a means of explanation. He wiped his brow with a heavy hand, catching the sweat gathered there. They were standing in the center court of the massive Olympic training center, the two men the only beings present in the whole facility. When Ushijima asked his coach if he could have permission to practice privately, it was granted under the assurance that Ushijima wouldn’t attempt to break down his body. The former captain gave his solemn word, and if there was one thing that could be set in stone, it was a promise from Ushijima. He did not take vows lightly.

“And the Pope is Catholic Ushiwaka-chan, but do try to keep up,” Oikawa snarked while giving a flirtatious wink. “You have to be quicker and move those enormous feet faster.” He gave a bit of a twirl, a pirouette filled with poise and grace. Maybe in another life, Oikawa could have been a dancer, a prima ballerina that left everyone in tears of adoration and veneration and rendered grown men weak at the knees. Though currently, he had no issue doing that last part on an almost daily basis. It was perhaps one of his favorite things about Oikawa: he looked as beautiful and delicate as a blossoming spring flower, but in reality, he was a powerful and enraged typhoon, ready to batter and dismantle, should the opportunity arise. “I understand that not everyone can be as flexible and graceful as me, but I know you’re capable of faking it until you make it.” 

Thus far, the practice had proven to be useful. It was certainly a lesson in humility for Ushijima, as Oikawa had zero qualms about providing ‘constructive’ criticism. The tall photographer constantly reminded Ushijima that the setter was the control-tower of the team, and Ushi simply needed to abide by that logic. Of course, he creatively insulted his former protege’s techniques, citing them as ‘sub-par’. “But that’s not your problem, Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa assured him while casually spinning a volleyball on the tip of his beautiful index finger. “That’s not your shortcoming, it’s Tobio-chan’s. However, you need to be adaptable to accommodate his faults. And don’t even get me started on that bleach-blonde brat with the accent.”

“Kageyama-san and Miya-san work hard at their role. They are good setters,” Ushijima tried to defend his teammates, but Oikawa shook his head in detest - he wasn’t in the mood to listen to excuses.

“Yes, and that’s the problem. They’re  _ good  _ setters sending the ball to a god-tier spiker. It’s like expecting Da Vinci to fingerpaint. He’s still gonna make world-class art, but people are going to be left feeling like something is missing.” He rolled his wide, wonderful eyes, an action that Ushijima would surprisingly never grow tired of. It was so signature, so  _ Tooru _ , and it was hard not to love. “They don’t push you, though. They just send the ball how you want it every single time and let me tell you, you’ve been hitting the ball the same way for the past 15 years.” 

There was logic to Oikawa’s explanation, Ushijima could tell. Oikawa dribbled the ball a couple of times, like a basketball, before looking up and catching Ushijima’s gaze. “Listen to me when I tell you that anyone who is of someone of significance in the realm of volleyball knows how you hit: with your left-hand, your elbow at a 90* ‘L’, and enough power that it might break the receiving libero’s wrists. Which is obviously an effective method, but it’s predictable and just a bit… stale.”

Ushijima hummed at that comment. So if it worked, then what was the issue? Where could the issue even lie?  _ Stale _ ?

“I see the steam coming out of your ears, Ushiwaka-chan. I’m not asking you to change the fundamentals of your gameplay, that would be stupid. I am, however, suggesting you create a formulated anomaly in your attack pattern.” 

The former setter took a few steps closer to his boyfriend, so close, in fact, that Ushijima could see the burning heat in his irises born of a new life that he hadn’t caught before. Those gorgeous hazel orbs were built of rich earth browns and forest greens and accented with the thinnest, yet most stunning, streak of dazzling gold. Yes, Oikawa was very much alive, and the evidence was housed right there in front of him. It astonished Ushijima because once before, those eyes had been so dark, so lonely, holding onto crippling pain and trauma. But today, they were as vibrant as the spring, a gift of what was to come.

Blinking steadily, Ushijima refocused his attention on those parted and pretty lips. He knew he needed to be paying closer attention to his boyfriend’s keen words of advice, but Ushijima kept losing himself in the other man’s stunning features. It had only been a few days since his panic attack in the shower and he had bounced back relatively quickly, all things considered. But handling the anxiety was easier now that Oikawa was such a steady part of his life. For all of his sharp words and blatant attempt to stifle his feelings, the way he fawned over the spiker after even the smallest bouts of anxiety was proof of his infallible heart. 

Not to mention he looked so beautiful like that, dressed down in athletic clothes, milk-white thighs long and delicious as they peeked out beneath the hem of tiny, black shorts. Sure, Ushijima had seen him fine-tailored suits and expensive dress clothes for work, but there was something to be said about the way Oikawa’s tank top clung to his body with the finest sheen of sweat, evidence of his labors. Even his chocolate hair, which was also so perfectly styled, was now just a bit messy. It broke Ushijima’s heart a bit that his boyfriend had no idea that it was truly his imperfections and flaws that made him so gorgeous, that attributed to his overall worth. It was in that moment that the taller of the two men decided that he would make it his life’s goal to open Oikawa’s eyes to his true beauty, and not just the superficial, put-on version he provides the adoring public.

“Wakatoshi?”

Ushijima came back to himself then, almost feeling dizzy as he brought his attention forward. 

“Waka, are you alright?” Oikawa questioned earnestly, placing a tentative hand on broad shoulders, pretty eyes shimmering with a tint of concern. 

“Yes,” he answered with what he hoped sounded like a genuine gruffness. While Ushijima wanted to pour his heart out regarding some of the things he had been thinking, he knew now wasn’t the time. There was a task at hand that required their utmost attention, and Oikawa deserved to have his ‘coaching’ moment.

“Good, so now let’s do what I just said.”

“Wait, what did you say?” 

“Oh, see, I knew you weren’t really listening.” A devious, almost lecherous smirk flashed across Oikawa’s face, dangerous like hot lightning. “I said you’re gonna spike with your right hand.”

Despite that sounding like a total trainwreck of an idea, Ushijima nodded, wary, but somehow willing to follow his boyfriend’s crazy scheme of an idea. Sure, he would go along with it but there was no way this was going to work. It would be like asking Oikawa to serve left-handed - completely ineffective. Theory and practice were two totally different demons.

“As I was explaining, Waka-chan,” Oikawa started up again, taking his spot at the setter’s line, hands gently squeezing the ball, “you need to change things up every now and then. Your power has become predictable. You just need to have a few tricks up your sleeve.”

“My shirt is sleeveless,” Ushijima stated dumbly, prompting a boisterous laugh from Oikawa’s chest. 

“Okay, pretend you’re a magician, right?” He fluttered his hand about as if sprinkling fairy dust on the ball. “But everyone’s used to your routine. It’s not a bad routine, per se, but it’s predictable. They know exactly how to prepare for it because it lost its ‘wow’. They’re no longer surprised or amazed.” Ushijima gave a solid nod of understanding and Oikawa grinned. “So get back up on the line and let’s see if we can work some magic.”

The first set ended rather predictably: Ushijima completely whiffed the spike, his large right hand swinging uselessly through the air, leaving the ball to hit the court with a pathetic, underwhelming ‘thud’ prior to gently rolling away from the pair.

“Alright, that went about as expected,” Oikawa chuckled as he made his way over to the ball cart. Ushijima blinked in confusion, but over-all, felt amused. “Let’s do it again.”

And so they did - over and over and over again. Some went better than others, but it served as a constant reminder for what they were here to work on, why he had asked his boyfriend for help in the first place. Ushijima needed to time his jump differently, too, because the ball wasn’t going all the way over to his left side since Oikawa was standing immediately to his right. It was a series of adjustments, though each one, no matter how minute, brought them closer to their goal.

“It doesn’t have to be as powerful, Wakatoshi,” Oikawa reminded him a bit breathlessly about half an hour into the drill. “Just make a connection and put it into an opening. They won’t see it coming.” He gave the ball another twirl. “It’s stupid if you think you can hit it as powerfully with your right as you do with your left. The key here isn’t power, though, it’s being sneaky. Cunning. I know these things don’t come easily to you by nature, which is why we have to  _ work _ .” 

It was blatantly obvious to the pair that this move was going to be a wildcard, something Ushijima could only pull off once or twice in an entire match, a play designed to catch the opponent off guard and steal a point when they least expected it. However, it would also leave the other team doubting, always questioning which move Ushijima was going to make next, and that alone would lead to sloppy mistakes and overthinking. Predictability meant safety, and without that peace of mind, they would falter and make rookie mistakes. Oikawa was willing to bank on it. He may have been out of volleyball for several years, but the psychology of the game would never change. Morale and determination were just as much of a factor as raw skill and talent. Leave them second-guessing their abilities and weasel right in - no qualms about it. 

“Again, Ushiwaka-chan, though this time, watch your footing when you jump and don’t draw your right arm back until the last possible moment. Show off your right hand too quickly and you will lose the element of surprise.” 

Much to Oikawa’s pleasure, his boyfriend had been much more receptive than he had initially thought. Ushijima wasn’t someone who frequently asked for help, but the humility was refreshing and reassuring. So long as he was willing to put in the work and put in a genuine effort into Oikawa’s suggestions, this whole process wasn’t wasted. Though in the very chambers of his wildly beating heart, Oikawa couldn’t deny just how amazing playing volleyball with Ushijima was.

Not that he would ever admit that aloud, of course. But there was a fulfilling sincerity to the way Ushijima played, always giving all of himself, a dedication that could only match Oikawa’s. Tooru wasn’t stupid, he knew he wasn’t a natural genius like Kageyama nor did he possess the sheer animalistic instinct of Miya Atusmu, but what he did have was the innate ability to read people: weaknesses, strengths, abilities. Oikawa’s sixth sense and second sight were invaluable. It was rare to find a player who could amplify those around him as he could. If someone stepped onto the court with Oikawa, regardless of which side of the net they stood, they left a better player, no doubt about it. And he hoped he could give that same result to Ushijima. God knows that he deserved that much.

In some way, this felt like repayment. Not that Ushijima would ever come to collect on the debt Oikawa owed him. The giant man probably didn’t even see it as debt, and should Oikawa ever ask to leave, Ushijima wouldn’t hold him down or clip his wings. Housed in that massive body, beneath those stoic features and often blunt and brutish words was simply a sweet boy who needed affection and reassurance like everyone else, but would never hold anyone down or force them to love him. It was perhaps the most endearing part of all, that this creature, composed of solid muscle and unyielding power, sought comfort and intimacy, a need to be humanized.

“Ready?” Oikawa inquired after resting just a moment. At that point, Ushijima was sweating buckets, the fine beads of perspiration rolling down his temples and neck in thick lines. His golden eyes were sharp and narrowed to a razor-thin point - he looked ready to cut and carve, to mold himself once more. Everyone always assumed that Ushijima Wakatoshi was chiseled from stone, a replica of the Adonis statue, shaped to be omnipotent and flawless. However, it was at that moment that Oikawa gripped onto a deep understanding that Ushijima wasn’t born that way. No, he was a man who sculpted himself, a creature determined to be reborn infinite times, to die a personal death, if only to arise better on the other side.

So when he gave a firm nod and the ball left Oikawa’s nimble fingertips for the final time to take it’s elegant and stunning arch through the air, it came as absolutely no shock that Ushijima’s right hand connected with the crisp leather, creating a resounding and thundering ‘smack’. Oikawa felt the reverb through his very bones, coursing and resilient, the action an astounding testament to the devastating tenacity the olympian possessed. The ball hit the opposite side of the court with every ounce of the stinging quality that it would have had it been hit with his left hand.

The awestruck silence hung between them, heavy and pregnant. Oikawa didn’t consider himself a man of recycled cliches, but it was really as though time had stood still, manifesting between them in a static cloud of electricity, waiting anxiously to unfurl. To move, breath, speak, would shatter the buzzing, exciting tension resonating in the open gym, sandwiched between polished wood floors and solid, steel rafters. 

Alas, it was Oikawa who spoke first, the first syllables puncturing the barrier, releasing the sweltering pressure in a breathless sigh, “oh my god.” His call to the almighty spilled from his lungs in a rush of dazed wonderment. They had just pulled off something so marveling and dizzying, rivaling the iconic freak quick the Karasuno duo pulled off all those years ago. 

Seconds ticked by like hours for Ushijima, so when Oikawa thrust his fists into the air, hurtling toward his boyfriend in a blur of ecstatic sobs, the taller of the two men was still in a state of daze and fatigued disbelief. Ushijima held out his arms almost instinctively, overwhelmed on every plane and facet of his being. 

“Baby! You did it! You did it!” Oikawa crashed into him with a desperate and frenzied collision of limbs. The tall setter jumped and wrapped his legs around the spiker’s broad hips as his long fingers slid into slick, brown hair and pink lips found an eager, full mouth. Oikawa’s chest was flush with Ushijima’s, sturdy arms braced underneath the setter’s pert ass to help support his weight. At that very moment, their kiss was so many things at once to each of them, a true phenomenon; a marvel to behold. 

For Ushijima, it was the fruition of a dream long-lived, a confirmation of a love that had gone ridiculed and unrequited for the better part of its existence. It was the reassurance that he was alive, burning, awake, that this life, this game, this sport was more than just a lesson in stubborn tenacity. All the years spent in tireless, heavy anxiety. All the tears he cried in secret, sealed away behind closed doors, refusing to admit weakness or anything like it that might shatter his glass-like image of masculinity. All of the training, the blood poured from his broken body, the sleepless nights, everything. It was here, held in his arms.

And for Oikawa, it was the acceptance of all that had been offered to him after denying it for so long, finally willing to latch on and never let go, to see that he deserved it; he was more than his mistakes. It was proof that he could do the things that once consumed his life without feeling it’s hungry, insatiable void. He had toed the line between obsession and passion for so long, and it brought him immeasurable peace to know which side he now stood; a side that brought healing, instead of crippling devastation.

“I love you,” Ushijima confessed finally after long moments of fevered tongues and searching hands, the setter still wrapped around his waist. 

“I love you, too,” Oikawa sobbed in return, pushing his sweat-lined forehead into Ushijima’s, neither man giving a damn about their over-exerted condition.

“I always wanted to play volleyball with you.” It rolled from his chest but sounded so small in the massive gymnasium, a tiny relic of a world he thought would never be inside of his reach.

Placing a quick kiss right on the bridge of Ushijima’s nose, Oikawa smirked. “What can I say? I’m here to make dreams come true.”

Ushijima chuckled and slowly lowered his boyfriend back to the gym floor, though he didn’t remove his hands from Tooru’s hips. “How does your knee feel?”

The lean brunette shrugged, but it was quite obvious to Ushijima that he was tired. Sure, Oikawa had been painstakingly working his body at the fitness center for the past few months, but the stamina needed for the sport required rigorous conditioning, and Oikawa had been out of practice for so long. That, and his knee gave him issues even on regular days, so this particular practice session likely left him winded.

“A little sore,” he admitted finally, face turning a little red, the flush a combination of shy embarrassment and heat from their training.

Cupping his lover’s cheek in a gentle caress, Ushijima softened his expression. “Then let’s go home and see to it.”

\-----------

“I’m going to shower,” Oikawa announced once they crossed the threshold into the highrise apartment, but Ushijima stopped him with a quick shake of his head.

“No,” he said simply, offering no further explanation.

Oikawa huffed indignantly, unsure of how to take the abrupt command. “Waka-chan, I stink and I’m sore and tired. Just let me shower.” His words held onto a whining lilt as he tossed his gym bag onto the genkan floor. Typically, Ushijima detested the messy habit, but his gratitude for Oikawa’s actions kept his lecture at bay.

“Go make some tea,” Ushijima told him with a gentle kiss to the shorter man’s temple, his porcelain skin sweet to the taste. Without waiting for further protest, Ushijima grabbed Oikawa’s abandoned bag and disappeared in the direction of their bedroom.

It was  _ their  _ bedroom now, Oikawa realized as he began his walk to the kitchen, a smile on his face despite the dull ache in his right knee and the slight confusion regarding his boyfriend’s instructions. The whole apartment was a place they shared, and ever since he had begun working, Oikawa had made himself responsible for both the internet and water bills. It wasn’t a big contribution, not compared to all that Ushijima paid for, but it made Oikawa feel useful. His large boyfriend had denied Oikawa’s need to contribute anything at all, citing that he was more than capable of taking care of them both. It was then that Oikawa protested:  _ ‘I am not one of your houseplants, Ushiwaka-chan _ ,’ he had explained with a sweet kiss one day post-breakfast.  _ ‘I am not something you need to water every day and fret over. Let me help, too.’ _

This was a metaphor the Olympian seemed to understand, giving a grunt of mild consideration. Ushijima wasn’t one to deny Oikawa of anything he asked, his freedom and insistence to let him contribute included. They found balance through it all, and it was such a gorgeous and stellar moment. 

Humming just under his breath, some catchy song that he had insisted on playing in the car (J-Pop as always), he unearthed his favorite mug from the pantry and started the hot water in the kettle. Faintly, he could hear the rush of water through the pipes and Oikawa smiled to himself knowing full well the Olympian was probably drawing them a bath. It was easily his favorite part of the apartment and often used it as a means to tease Ushijima, especially in the very early days of their relationship.  _ ‘Apartment-hunting is hard, Ushiwaka-chan! Do you know how expensive apartments with jacuzzi tubs are?!’  _ To which the spiker only glanced around the room and gave a quiet  _ ‘yes’ _ .

It took just a few minutes more for the kettle to heat up and for the sounds of running bath water to still. Busying himself with his task, Oikawa poured two mugs of herbal tea, putting a generous dollop of honey in each. It was awfully domestic, learning exactly how his boyfriend took his tea, but it brought him an immense and fluttering sense of pride all at the same time.

“Is your tea ready?” Ushijima inquired as he emerged from the hall. He was dressed down only into his sweatpants now, and Oikawa would never grow tired of the sight. He looked like a photoshopped Greek god, and Oikawa considered himself blessed that he got to drink in the sight, sweeter than any slice of milk bread, and that it was for his eyes only. 

“Yes, and I made one for you as well,” he explained, offering over the second mug. Ushijima clasped it firmly in his hands and took a long sip.

“Thank you.”

Giving a small smile, Oikawa nodded. “Sure thing.” 

“I drew you a bath,” the taller of the two men stated after a long pause, abandoning his tea mug on the counter. “I thought you could soak your knee a bit.”

“That’s very thoughtf-- hey! What are you doing?!” Oikawa yelped in surprise as Ushijima bent down to sweep him up in one swift motion. The former setter clasped tightly onto his mug so as to not spill it’s contents as he was suddenly cradled bridal style. The flex and dips of Ushijima’s exposed and buldging biceps caused the air to get lost in his lungs. 

“Ushiwaka-chan!” Oikawa whined in dismay, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m taking you to the bath,” the Olympian replied simply, golden eyes fixed forward as they snaked through the narrow hall. Deep in the confines of his chest, in the very chambers of his heart, Ushijima couldn't help but remember the last time he carried Oikawa in this fashion. It was a fateful night months ago when Oikawa was so very sick and in need of help. He weighed a lot less then, too, not that Ushijima was complaining. Oikawa had earned every pound he put back on, to become beautiful and healthy once more. 

“I can see that,” Tooru admonished with a click of his tongue, though the gesture didn’t hold an ounce of heat. If anything, it was exceptionally flattering to be handled in such a way. Oikawa had always been taller than most men and he found dominance and strength in that fact. But he would always be smaller than Ushijima, and he was surprised to find that the realization didn’t upset him. If anything, he made him feel loved and protected knowing that this statuesque, lumberjack of a man would shoulder any crisis, confrontation, or situation: Oikawa would never have to do it alone.

Carefully, as though he were made of fine porcelain, Ushijima lowered Oikawa to the bed so he was sitting on the edge. Immediately, the spiker dropped to his knees and set to work, slowly removing Oikawa’s garments, starting with his socks. Bemusedly, Oikawa watched, taking another sip of his tea. 

“What has gotten into you today, Ushiwaka-chan?” the setter teased behind the rim of his mug.

“Gratitude.” The word possessed a softness that mirrored the quality of the gesture. There was a gentle condition to Ushijima’s facial features as he continued, stealing Oikawa’s mug and setting on the nightstand as the setter obliged and raised his arms, allowing his sweatshirt to be pulled off in a fluid motion. It was strange to see such a usually passive and hardened expression melted like precious metal; pliable, moldable, ready to be made into something new. It was also rare that Oikawa could be rendered speechless, but that’s exactly what he was by the time every stitch of clothing was removed and he was left wholly naked before his boyfriend, his lover, his former rival. Not one to waste time, Ushijima lifted him once more.

“I can put myself in the tub--” but his protests died in his throat as Ushijima carried him into the bathroom and lowered him into the basin with the same grace and delicate reverence as before. As the water rose a little with the added mass, some of it splashed up, wetting the thighs of Ushijima’s sweatpants, though the wing spiker didn’t seem to notice nor mind.

Oikawa immediately relaxed as his body settled into the tub. Ushijima had taken the time to add bubbles, which formed a thick, almost froth-like layer to the whole surface. And it smelled so good, like fragrant rose-water and ivy. The ache in his muscles and the stiffness in his knee found prompt relief beneath the heat. 

“Here,” Ushijima said softly, holding a rolled towel. Confused, Oikawa blinked, but his boyfriend motioned for him to sit up just a bit. Obliging, Oikawa did so, only to be pushed back down so his head rested on the towel, much like a pillow. It all felt like a trip to a really lavish and expensive spa.

“You really didn’t hold out on me,” Oikawa stated with a sweet smile, eyes slipping closed in a satiated state.

“Never.” A subtle smirk pulled at the corner of Ushijima’s lips at that statement, very much appeased at Oikawa’s receptiveness and appreciation for the gesture. The smaller brunette let out a soft sigh, sinking further into the water until only the long column of swan-like neck protrude above the layer of cloudy bubbles.

After a long, quiet moment, Oikawa cracked open an eye, the iris hazel and curious. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“I do not want to disturb your relaxation time.”

With yet another chastizing click of his tongue, Oikawa grabbed Ushijima’s hand and tugged  _ hard _ , almost causing the huge ace to fall into the basin. “Take off your pants and get in here,” the smaller man commanded with an admonishing tone.

Never one to disappoint, Ushijima removed his wet pants and boxers before sliding into the opposite end of the tub. Making a pleased hum, Oikawa stretched out his long, luscious legs so they rested on the tops of his boyfriend’s thick thighs, his calf lightly (yet intentionally) grazing Ushijima’s rapidly hardening member. However, Ushijima made no comment about it, only wrapped a loving, gentle hand around Oikawa’s right ankle, guiding it to gingerly breach the surface of the warm water.

“What are you doing?” Oikawa inquired, this time, not bothering to open his eyes, body fully relaxed and pliant. It was as though his whole being softened beneath the warmth of the water, melting his often icy exterior and clipped words.

Ushijima didn’t reply, at least not with words. He only moved his large hands upwards, mapping every inch of balmy, porcelain skin until they circled completely around his right knee. It was a bit swollen to the touch, the tissue just beneath was partially inflamed, spongy and tender. Giving a slight grunt in disapproval, deft fingers set to work, the ace’s large hands easily enclosing around the circumference of the top of Oikawa’s slender calf. Two thick thumbs went to work in tandem, gently massaging either side of the knee cap. This action earned Ushijima a gentle groan from Oikawa’s lips, and it was music to his ears. 

“Mmm,” he moaned softly, the sound eliciting a rousing twitch from between Ushijima’s legs. He did his best to ignore it; this wasn’t about him. It was about caring for his lover. 

“Does it hurt?” Ushijima asked softly, keeping his ministrations gentle. The last thing he wanted was to put too much pressure and cause the man any more pain. From day one, it was Ushijima’s mission to prove to Oikawa just how much his hands could give, rather than focus on what they might take. 

“Mmm, ‘eels good.” His words were slurred as though he were on the precipice of sleep, caught somewhere in a lucid dream, clinging to consciousness by a twine-like thread. In this condition, Ushijima was given the privilege of seeing Oikawa in a state that few others did. His usual pinched brows were smoothed over, the calculating, sharp lines of his face no longer traceable, given way to soft cheeks touched with a divine shade of pink. Twin, thick fans of chocolate lashes rested on sunkissed skin. Stray, almost completely faded freckles etched wide constellations into his otherwise flawless face. Oikawa was a true beauty, effortlessly so. There were times he wore makeup, though his favorite accessory was his mask: that finely poured veil he paraded around for the world. But not for Ushijima; never for Ushijima.

“Tooru,” the large ace purred, leaning down to press a chaste, yet still feverish kiss to the scar on Oikawa’s knee. It was but a thin line, long and neat, now turned almost a waxen white. If he ran his fingertips over it, he could feel the indentation left behind, evidence of an opening long healed. 

“Hmm?” Oikawa made a questioning sound, but made no move; he was completely gone, almost enitrely given over to sleep.

“Allow me one more thing.” It was given as a statement though it lingered onto a questioning tone, almost begging to be granted permission.

His reply didn’t miss a beat, not even in his placid state. “Anything, baby.”

That was all Ushijima needed to hear, moving so he kneeled at the center of the basin, sitting on his heels, the jacuzzi jets still pulsing around them. In a hurried yet still tender motion, Ushijima resituated Oikawa so that each of the setter’s gorgeously long legs were placed on either of the ace’s broad-set shoulders. 

“W-what--” but Oikawa’s words were lost on him, eyes flashing open for just the briefest moment until the pleasure racking his body forced them to come to a close once more: Ushijima had him in his mouth.

“ _ Wakatoshi _ ,” he gasped beautifully, back arching up and away from the fiberglass basin, nimble hands scrambling for purchase, though finding nothing but the lip of the tub.

Gold eyes stayed completely fixed on his lover as he slowly, almost painfully so, flattened his tongue against Oikawa’s shaft and licked upwards, until he made it to the crown. His lover twitched around the wet appendage, another explicit moan pulling from his chest and echoing against the pristine tiles of the bath. With Oikawa’s hips above the waterline, and his knees bent around Ushijima’s shoulders, this left only part of his stomach and chest submerged in water, his head still comfortably resting on the rolled towel.

“Ahh, babe, I--” 

His sentence trailed off, incoherent, as Ushijima lowered himself once more, taking Oikawa completely in his mouth until the head touched the back of his throat. Large hands cradled Oikawa’s lean waist, keeping him still, preventing him from pushing up any further. 

When Oikawa opened his eyes, they were glassy, pupils blown wide and completely overtaken by lust, Ushijima knew it was his cue to continue. Keeping his languid pace, the Olympian began to move his head up and down, tongue curving, roaming, pleasuring. He savored the salty stickiness of precome as it touched his tastebuds, only encouraging him further. Beneath him, Oikawa had become a moaning, writhing mess, reduced to heated pants and near-unintelligible calls for  _ more. _

The trembling in Oikawa’s thighs was the first indicator of his pending orgasm, his skillful, quivering hands latched onto Ushijima’s wrists, nails cutting half-moon crescents into tanned flesh. “I’m going to, ah--,” Oikawa tried to warn, but Ushijima paid no mind. He wanted to feel it, he wanted to swallow it, revel in every ounce of the delicious, thick seed. Bringing Oikawa to this point, this unmitigated height of dizzying, unrelenting pleasure fueled the taller brunette in a way he could never begin to explain, or really even understand. Perhaps it was just further evidence that he loved Oikawa in a way he had never loved anyone before, in a way he hoped to never love again. They were connected now, bound not by legality nor any sort of bureaucratic bond, but instead, by the thin red string of fate, as crimson and life-giving as any beating heart. Soulmates forged of cast iron, of cosmic stardust, of all things beautiful and whole and so very faultless. There was nothing in this world that could pull Wakatoshi away, nothing but Oikawa’s own words.

With his lover’s given name on his lips, Oikawa came thick and hot, pouring into Ushijima’s mouth. Effortlessly, he swallowed every last drop, letting not a trace go to waste, coating his throat all the way down. Allowing Oikawa to pump through his orgasm, Ushijima finally removed himself with a lewd, lascivious pop. However, he had no time to waste as he leaned forward, catching Oikawa in his arms before he could slip, boneless, back into the water.

Oikawa wanted so desperately to reciprocate, to ask ‘ _ what about you? _ ’. He never had the chance, though, as his eyes fell to a close once more, Ushijima’s strong and capable arms folding around him, pulling him into his chest and the safest, most loving of embraces.

“Can I take you to bed now, Tooru?”

As a response, Oikawa used the last of his strength to squeeze back, hinting at the affirmative. And as sleep overtook him, he could think of nowhere else he would rather be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're in the States, I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving! If you're not, I hope you've had a great week anyway!
> 
> If you're on TikTok, please check out @lucidhxdes 's TikToks! He made some incredible videos while cosplaying as Oikawa and acting out some scenes from this fic. Lucien, thank you so much for creating such amazing pieces! It truly means the world!
> 
> Please leave me a note with your thoughts and comments! I really enjoy hearing from you! <3 
> 
> Stay safe and well!!
> 
> _next time: reunions_


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